


East of Nowhere

by CleverDame



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8873461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CleverDame/pseuds/CleverDame
Summary: Sam x Female Reader - You and Sam are strangers who are trapped in a desolate mountain town where you live alone, isolated from the outside world, for five years.





	1. Introduction

Your first memory is that of lying on the musty bedspread in the dingy Pines Hotel room with Sam looking down at you. You don’t know where you are, and you blink again and again trying to wink some memory of the previous events back into your head.

You try to speak but your throat is too dry, instead you sputter and cough.

Sam (you don’t know his name yet) is sitting up on his elbows and from the looks of him, he’s just as disoriented as you are.

“Who are you?” he chokes out, “where are we?” Sam doesn’t trust you that first day and the feeling is mutual. Waking up to next to some giant stranger isn’t exactly your status quo.

You’re still having trouble talking, so you adamantly shake you shake head.

Sam rolls off the bed with a grunt, rubbing his lower back. You know how he feels, your whole body aches, your muscles feel weak. You imagine this is how chronically ill patients feel when they take their daily stroll down hospital halls.

He brings a small paper cup of water back from the bathroom and hands it to you, making no attempt to hide a skeptical look. The little nagging part of your brain tells you not to drink it, you don’t know what’s happening or who this guy, but the burn in your throat wins over logic. 

You swallow, then cough, feeling that you could drink another gallon and still not be quenched.

Sam glances out the window, carefully pulling back the yellowing curtain. He doesn’t seem to like what he sees. 

He turns back to you with narrowed eyes, “You know where we are?”

“Did you bring me here?” You choose to ignore his question and push your own, of which you have many. “Because if you did and you just let me go, I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

“I didn’t fucking abduct you.” Sam twitches, clearly agitated. There’s a scared desperation in his tone that mirrors your own. You believe him.

“We should call 911, do you see my purse anywhere?” There’s a sinking feeling inside you as you say the words. 

“I can’t find my cell phone and I’m guessing yours is MIA too.” He pats a pockets for a second time.

“What the hell is happening?” You can feel the panic rising in your chest.

He picks up the phone at the side of the bed and curses, placing it back in the cradle. “Damn it, it’s dead.”

“What do we do?” You’re brain isn’t work yet. This is all too much to process. The last thing you remember is going to sleep next to your boyfriend.

Sam searches through the small closet just inside the door and finds a metal bar, the kind that’s used in a sliding window to jam it from opening.

“Come on.” He hooks his head.

You follow close behind him, stepping timidly out into the dimly lit hallway. There’s room after room, every door standing wide open. It doesn’t look anyone else has been here, each bed is made, still in pristine condition.

At the end of the hallway there’s a staircase. When you hesitate, Sam reaches back and grabs you hand, pulling you closer to him. “It’s ok, just stay right by me okay? If we get separated for any reason you run back to the room, lock the door and wait.”

“Why would we get separated?” You insist, refusing to move any further. 

“I’m not saying we’re going to, just in case.” Sam pulls at your hand and you hold your ground.

“You’re not going to leave me, are you?”

“No, I’m not going to leave you.”

“But…I’m just asking, under what circumstances would we split up?” You bite your bottom lip, you don’t like the sound of any of this. This guy has made the world’s fastest transition from possible kidnapper to the white knight. You don’t know much right now, but you don’t want to be separated from him. 

“Look,” Sam turns to you, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Until we have some idea of what’s going on here we have to be ready for anything. So I’m just trying to have a little foresight okay? You stay right here, behind me. If - and I’m not saying it will - but if something crazy happens, what do you do?”

“I run like hell back to the room.” You whisper shakily, grabbing a fistfull of this shirt sleeve. He seems to know what he’s doing or at least faking it rather well. You wonder if he’s a police officer or maybe a soldier and make a mental not to ask him later. “I got it.”

“Good.” He confirms already exasperated. You tip-toe down the stairs and into the small lobby of a hotel. All the lights are on, even a fire roaring in the ornate sitting area, but there’s no one at the front desk. No guests. Nothing.

Sam glances back to you as he pushes the front door open, tacitly asking if you’re ready. You nod, puffing out an anxious breath and stepping onto what appears to be an idyllic main street.

It’s beautiful. Clean, well maintained pavement that leads past shops and restaurants. The only thing missing is the people. It’s the middle of the day, but there are no cars, no one bustling from shop to shop, no one sitting in the window of the cafe across the street.

Sam steps out into the sidewalk, looking one way, then the other. He yells at the top of his lungs, “Hello! Is anyone here?”

The lack of response is bone chilling.

Sam pulls you from the toy store, to the grocery, to the pub.

Nothing.

No one.

The two of you appear to be the only people in this small, mountain town. From what you can see, the whole damn place has been abandoned, everything left in perfect order. There is food on shelves, working electricity and running water.

And no one else, just you and Sam.


	2. Year One

**Day One  
**

The night is turning cool and fireplace is your tiny sun for the evening, casting long shadows over the rug. The flames curl and sway, flicking this way and that, crackling as they burn the dry wood.

The sun is setting as you sit across from Sam in the empty lobby of the hotel. His leg keeps bouncing as he runs his hands over mouth, searching for the next step. You’ve spent the whole afternoon wandering aimlessly around this little town and have yet to find a working phone or another person.

“My brother will have realized something is wrong by now,” Sam offers, turning his hands palm up. “He’ll be looking for a way to find me or at least get in touch. He’s good at it, we’ll be ok.”

“That’s great.” You’re not completely convinced. “But, this is some real Twilight Zone level shit. If we can’t even find another human being, what makes you think he’ll even know where to start?”

“This is kinda what we do,” Sam’s eyebrows draw together, “We deal with things that are, ah, supernatural in nature.”

“Oh.” You nod agreeably.  He awaits a response but you don’t really have one. You’ve always kind of believed in ghosts and now you’ve been transported to ghost town in parts unknown; almost anything seems plausible. “So, what do we do?”

“Well, I think we need to hunker down for the night.” As if on cue, his stomach makes a gurgling sound.  “Are you hungry?”

“I’m starving.” You’ve been too focused on current events to let your aching tummy control you, but now that he mentions it, you really are starving.

“We need to go back the grocery store and get all the salt we can find, we’ll grab something to eat while we’re there.” Sam stands.

“Then what?” You hesitate before rising from your seat.

“Then, we lock ourselves in a room and wait until morning. Who knows what’s out there in the dark. We’re not gonna find out.”

-

The two of you race across the darkening street just as the sun sets beyond the horizon.

“Hurry up.” Sam impatiently ushers you through the unlocked glass doors of Tolliver’s Family Market. You scurry inside and sneer at Sam as he pulls the door shut behind you. “We gotta be quick. I’ll get the salt, you get the other stuff.”

“Why do we need salt?” You hiss.

“I’ll explain it to you when we get out of here.”

You huffed, “Deal.” You don’t have the energy to be your normal obstinate, inquisitive self.

Every item in the store has been immaculately placed on the shelves, each piece of inventory fully stocked and seemly allocated with care. You look around for a basket or bag and pull a small canvas backpack off the wall.

Food first. That’s what Sam told you to do. You’re not normally one to take orders, but these are extenuating circumstances. You dash down the aisles until you find what you’re looking for, stuffing a couple of boxes of granola bars into the pack. You make you way to the cooler and grab two bottles of water. From there, it’s onto toiletries. Spying the travel section, you collect tiny bottles of shampoo, toothpaste and deodorant.  Finally, you come to the last row, finding neatly hung novelty t-shirts, sweatpants and socks. You grab two of each, guessing Sam’s size, before dropping to your knees to stuff it in the bag.

“You ready?” Sam barrels around the corner, scaring the shit out of you.

“Jesus Christ, give a girl some warning.” You pant, heart beating hard in your chest. “I got everything, I think.”

“Great.” He offers you a hand and doesn’t let go once you stand, instead he hauls you back at his preferred pace to the hotel.

“Slow down a little,” you plead, jogging to keep up with him.

He doesn’t.

You scramble up the stairs and proceed to run smack into his back, where he has completely stopped in the hallway. “Be careful.” He throws you a critical glare. “In here, this room has two beds.”

You follow Sam inside, breathing a sigh of relief as he closes and bolts the door. You hover at the edge of the bed, watching as he wedges a chair under the handle. He moves fast, like he’s secured a room a million times before. He checks the windows, then pulls the curtain.

“Help me with this part,” he beckons to you, after inspecting the bathroom. He takes out a box of table salt and hands it to you. “We’re going to make one, long, unbroken line of salt around the outside of the room.”

“Why?” To say you’re skeptical would be an understatement.

Sam takes a deep breath, flustered with the line of questioning. “Can we talk and pour at the same time, please? What I’m about to say is going to sound crazy.”

“After today, nothing seems crazy to me.” You take the salt and begin to lay a thick line in from frame of the door, then follow the line of the wall.

“Okay, well, all this - I mean the town and us ending up here - it might be a demon. They can’t cross salt lines,” Sam glances over his shoulder to watch your reaction.

You stop for a moment, pursing your lips in thought. “You’re right, that is fucking crazy.”

“Look,” Sam scoffs, “you wanted to know and I’m telling you. I don’t have time to ease you into this. Demons are real, so is a lot of stuff that would give you nightmares. The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can work on getting out of here.”

“Jeez, calm down.” You move closer to him, having worked your way around the room. “I’m doing this damn salt thing, aren’t I?”

“Sorry, something like this happened to me before. It was a long time ago, but it didn’t end well.”

“When you say ‘didn’t end well’ you mean…?”

“People died.”

“So, you woke up in an abandoned town and demons were trying to kill people?”

“That’s the gist of it, but it was different though. It doesn’t feel the same; that was a ghost town, literally. This place is Pleasantville.”

“So…maybe not demons?”

Sam side-eyes suspiciously, trying to determine if you’re making fun of him, but you’re not. You’re too tired, emotionally and physically, for that.

Sam makes his way around the room, checking the salt and gives a nod of approval. “Looks good.”

You dump the contents of your backpack onto your bed and tear open the box of granola bars, tossing one to Sam. You rip open the wrapper and end up biting half of the bar off in one chomp.

You’re well aware that since you woke up in this place, you’ve been running off of pure adrenaline. Once the initial shock of this situation wears off, you’re afraid you might have a breakdown.

There’s silence while you both eat, simultaneously lost in your own thoughts. You tell yourself you’re going to find a way out of this, that you have a whole life that doesn’t suddenly just disappear. Jack, your boyfriend, will realize something is really wrong and he’ll call your dad and they will have people searching for you by tomorrow.

Yeah, you’re going to be fine.

“Assuming we make it through the night, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” you ask, ripping open another fruit and nut bar.

Sam takes a long gulp of his water and looks from the covered window to you. “We get out of here. We find a car or a bike or we walk, but we get the hell out of dodge.”

“I can support that plan.” You accept that he knows way more about this than you do. You may not be a hundred percent on board with the whole demon theory, but you’re astute enough to know there’s something otherworldly happening here.

“You can try to get some sleep if you want. I’m gonna stay up, keep watch for a while and make sure everything is copasetic.” Sam moves to other bed, stacking two pillows behind him as back support.

“You think it’s safe for me to take shower?” you ask. “We’ve been running around all day, I feel disgusting.”

“Sure, umm, you should probably leave the door open.” You raise your eyebrows and Sam rolls his eyes at your reaction. “Not all the way, but just don’t latch it.”

“I won’t lock you out, scouts honor.” You hold up two fingers and a tired smile flashes across his face.

You’re thankful that this mystery town has hot water as you step under the showerhead and pop open a small bottle of shampoo. This has, hands down, been the strangest, scariest day of your life. There’s a part of you that’s thinking you’re going to wake up at any moment. This all seems like the plot of Lifetime movie, trapped in a ghost town with longhaired, well-toned, ghost buster. Your tired feet and a creeping headache assure you that this is definitely not a dream. How or why it’s happening you’re unsure, but at least you have Sam.

At least you’re not alone.

You towel dry your hair and brush your teeth in the steamy bathroom before slipping on the sweats you took from Tolliver’s. You pad back into the room, combing your fingers through your wet hair. “It’s your turn if you-”

You stopped mid-sentence to find that Sam’s asleep. His mouth is hanging open as his body lists to one side. You toy with the idea of waking him up, but it seems like if something really wants in, it’s gonna happen one way or another. You turn off the overhead light and crawl into the scratchy sheets.

Just as you’re beginning to think that you should stay up and take his watch, your eyelids fall heavy and you follow Sam into a dark, dreamless slumber.

**Day Two**

“Hey,” you feel a hand on your shoulder, shaking you awake. This is typical Jack, trying to get you up for a run at some ungodly hour on a Saturday morning. You’re not interested.

“Jack, stop.” You push the heavy arm away, twisting in the sheets.

“Uh, it’s not Jack. Come on, Y/N, we have to get going.” Sam pulls the covers off your body and a rush of cool air forces your eyes to flutter open.

You get one look at Sam sitting the edge of your bed and you rub your hands over your face. “I was hoping yesterday was a dream,” you mutter as he hands you a small cup of coffee that he had brewed on the old in-room coffee maker.

“Sorry, still here in the middle of it, unfortunately. Get dressed and we’ll try to get the hell out of here, huh?” Sam’s fully dressed and ready to go, he must have woken up awhile ago. You have a sip of your coffee, ugh, it’s no Starbucks, but it does the job.

“Yes, please.” You roll out of bed and make quick work of dressing. You pull on yesterday’s jeans and light sweater you arrived in. When you emerge from the bathroom, Sam is ready to go, the small backpack slung over his shoulder.

::

There’s a beat up old Chevy Caprice back in the garage behind the bakery.  Sam hotwires it, clenching his fists in joy when the engine rumbles to life. You’re suddenly nervous and sweaty, fidgeting as Sam pulls it onto main street, heading towards the signs reading: Thanks for visiting Shadow Hill! Come back and see us again soon.

You drive down the road, the car sputtering as you head out of town, venturing down a narrow paved road lined with tall, thick pine trees. You see Sam glance at you out of the corner of your eye.

“What’s wrong? This is good right?” You shift, looking to him.

“Yeah, it just…seems too easy.” He comments hesitantly, looking in the rear view.

“We shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” You sit back in your seat and look up over the trees to the looming mountain face that seems to be on all sides.

As if on cue, the all too familiar main street comes into view in front of you and Sam slows to a crawl. You’re both quiet as you creep past the sign that reads: Welcome to Shadow Hill. We hope you make your home with us!

“Sam.” You breathe, reaching for his arm and scooting closer to him, your mind trying to process what’s happening. “We just came from here. I mean, we didn’t even make a loop, yet we’re coming back in the same way we came.”

“It looks that way,” he says while looking in every direction, as if expecting an answer to drop from the heavens.

“It’s not possible, how is this possible.” For the first time in your life you don’t have anything else to say. Your heart starts to beat fast in your chest, that sweat you felt earlier now pouring from your forehead.

“It shouldn’t be possible, but it’s happening here, wherever we are.” Sam shifts the car into park and looks to you, twinging in concern. “Hey, don’t freak out on me, we’re gonna figure this out. You ready to walk?”

“Yes, let’s go.” You follow him out of the driver’s side door and immediately begin power walking away from the sign, heading back down the road. Sam’s walk turns into a to jog. You don’t complain as you trot behind him, happy to put some distance between you and mother fucking Shadow Hill.

It’s not even fifteen minutes later before the welcome sign appears again.

The moment you see it you start to panic, truly fearful for the first time. “Am I dreaming? What the fuck is happening?”  Your breath starts to hasten, your whole body becomes clammy and you feel the world spin as your legs give out, sinking toward the ground.

“Hey, hey, hey. I got you.” You feel Sam’s hand under your armpits as he lowers you down, crouching beside you. “There’s a reason this is happening and we just have to find out what it is. We’re going to get of here, I promise.”

“You can’t promise me that. You don’t know what’s going on. We’re trapped here, I mean really trapped. Oh my God, my parents must be so worried right now.” You lay back on the asphalt, reaching out to either side as if it might ground you. There’s a fizzy feeling in your brain, keeping you lightheaded. “I’m scared.”

Sam’s scared, too. He is scared out of his mind and starting to worry that this is more than a demonic prank. This place isn’t cursed, warded or guarded, it’s a completely self-contained reality, like a life-sized snow globe.

“No matter what happens, we’re here together. We’re going to take care of each other.” Sam grabs your shoulder, forcing you to pay attention. You let him pull you up into a sitting position. “You and me, no matter what. Got it?”

“Ahuh.” You nod, leaning forward, resting your head on his shoulder. You’d put money on the fact that he’s done this whole ‘calm a girl down’ before, because he’s damn good at it.

After you’ve pulled yourself together, you make the short walk back into town. You’re in no hurry now so you saunter, equally defeated, side by side.

“We should stop into the grocery store again, pick up a few more things,” he suggests as you approach Tolliver’s.

You shrug and meander behind him into the store. “I’m going to be get some Power Bars or something. I can’t do any more granola and raisin.”

You grab a bag of chips from the end cap and pop open the bag, crunching as you walk. If you’re the only people here, might as well make your own rules. When you get to the aisle where you stopped yesterday, you freeze, doing a double take. “Sam!”

He’s skidding around the corner in two seconds, chest heaving and ready for a fight. “What’s wrong?”

“Look at this.” You point to the shelf. Sam stands beside you, tilting his head.

“What am I looking at?” He whispers.

“These boxes. Yesterday, I took two of that kind and one of the raspberry. Now, they’re stocked again, like I never removed anything,” you verify, counting the rows.

“Huh,” Sam trails off into his own thought, walking away from you. You follow him to the condiment section.

“Same thing with the salt, I must have taken five or six boxes and now it’s like new.”

“This is good, right? Someone must’ve been here.” You’re only hopeful for a moment. The grimace on Sam’s face makes you feel sick. “You think someone’s fucking with us?”

“I don’t know. I think if we do have company, they’re doing more than playing a joke. Let’s check something else.”

Sam runs out of the store and toward the Pines Hotel. You sprint behind him, followly blinding at this point.

When Sam pushes open the door to the room you shared the night before, the beds are freshly made, sheets pulled taught over the mattress. Even the trash you threw in the bin has vanished.  

“What the hell…” you gawk, leaning on the door jam.

“This isn’t good.” Sam motions for you to come inside, locking the door behind you. “Why would anyone make the beds?”

::

Shadow Hill resets itself every day, at different times. This is an undeniable fact you’ve come to understand after many sleepless nights of surveillance.

Crouching behind a potted plant, you clamp a hand over your mouth as you watch the magic happen.  In the blink of an eye, every trash is empty, dirty plates magically appear clean back in the cupboard, and fresh food restocks in each business, restaurant, and home.

It’s an old sorcery, something powerful that Sam even has trouble wrapping his head around.

“Where do we even start?” You lament, wringing your hands. This has to be dream.

“With the basics.” Sam offers casually. “I’ll show you.”

**Day Thirteen**

“So, what are you going to make with all this stuff anyway?” You look down at the list he carefully wrote out for you and pull four wires out of a plastic tube labeled ‘2N 3904 NPN transistors’.

“We’re going to make an EMF detector.” Sam’s disembodied voice explains from several aisles over. “They can detect electro-”

You cut him off before he can finish. You’re not a rube. “I know what an EMF detector is. I’ve watched more episodes of Ghost Adventures than I care to admit to.”

“Good, you get the basic idea. We need to know what we’re dealing with and we don’t have gear, so we’re gonna make our own.”

“And you can just do that? You know.. make one of these things?” You add a coil of magnet wire to your basket and meet Sam where’s he’s sitting at the counter. His tools are neatly laid out, proving clearly he’s done this before.

“Every hardware store has the stuff to make one, you just have to know some basics. We’ll be out of here in no time.” He plugs in a soldering iron and you pull over a rickety stool from the cash register.

“You always make your own stuff?”

“We used to have to make everything ourselves. Ghost hunting is more fashionable these days, we get a lot of stuff from Amazon, believe it or not.” Sam offers you a grin and gets down to work, attaching thin wires to a circuit board.

“And this is what you and your brother do….full time. Hunt ghosts and other stuff.”

“Pretty much,” he shrugs.

“I’m going out a limb here, but I’m guessing there’s not big money in ghostbusting. How do you support yourselves?”

“We have a a few unconventional methods,” Sam presses his tongue between his lips in concentration as he squints at the circuits and begins soldering. “By unconventional, I mean illegal.”

“I suppose you gotta do what you gotta do.” You shrug, spinning on the stool, legs dangling.

“What do you do?” Sam looks up, realizing for the first time that he really knows very little about you. With everything that’s been happening, small talk hasn’t been high on the list of priorities.

“I’m a high school science teacher, physics or chemistry, depending on the semester. ”

“No shit.” Sam laughs. There’s a look of genuine surprise on his face.

“What? I don’t look sciencey enough?” You gesture to yourself dramatically.

“No, you’re just younger and way more attractive than any teacher I ever had in school,” Sam comments, shifting up to catch your reaction.

You blush and so does he.

“I do have a high attendance rate,” you smirk.

“So, did you always want to be a teacher?”

“Hell no. I don’t even like kids that much,” you laugh. “I’m a botanist at heart. It’s all about the plants for this geek. My dream is to work in a museum. When I was a kid, I always wanted to work in the botany department at the Smithsonian. But, life happens and you end up grading papers and handing out hall passes.”

“I was going to be a lawyer, but that was over a decade ago. Now, I live in an underground bunker with my brother and perpetrate credit card fraud. Life’s funny that way,” Sam tucks his hair behind his ear and gestures for you to hand him batteries.

He switches a button and a little red light comes on. You clasp your hands together, genuinely dazzled. “Very impressive work.”

“Thanks.” Sam looks happy with himself. “Let’s see what we can find.”

You spend the better part of two days investigating every inch of every building, park, and shrub.

You find nothing.

Either Sam’s EMF skills are a little rusty or there’s nothing in Shadow Hill giving off ghostly vibes.

**Day Twenty-Nine**

You try everything from witchcraft to Ouija boards, even a few things that you think Sam might just be making up.

He’s busy grinding herbs and reading from a ritual he wrote out for himself the night before. It’s taken the better part of three weeks. He’s drawn out (in painstaking detail) a design that you’ve been tasked with copying onto the floor. You drag the chalk slowly, connecting the final symbol and sit back on your heels.

“So, tell me again what we’re doing?” You haven’t forgotten, but you need to hear him say it again.

“We’ve been over this a hundred times,” Sam sighs, brushing off his hands. “This is the most powerful summoning spell I know.”

“And we’re summoning…an angel?” You try to hide your disbelief.

“Yes.” Sam watches a skeptical look wash over your face. “Look, I know this sounds insane, but if we can send up a message, maybe Cas will be able to hear us.”

“Cas being…an angel…that you’re friends with.” Sam raises his eyebrows, confirming.  You’re making an effort to believe him, you really are, but angels? It sounds crazy. But then again, being trapped here would have sounded crazy to you a month ago. “Sorry, no more doubt. I’m all in, put me where you need me, Sam.”

“Over here.” You move to the other side of the circle, watching as Sam lights the herbs on fire in the small, stone bowl. He pulls a knife out of his pocket and to your horror slices up his hand, dripping blood into the bowl.

He reads a series of phrases in Latin and the ground begins to rattle like an earthquake tremor. Sam reaches for you, pulling you beside him in anticipation of unknown events and then, suddenly, everything goes silent.

“Is that it?” You peak out one eye, tucked behind Sam’s arm.

“Yup.” He’s breathing heavy, trying to hold back an all too familiar look of disappointment.

“Did it work?” You question, as he wipes a bloody palm on his jeans.

“We’ll find out.”

**Three Months**

The Shadow Hill Library and Information Archive is a redbrick, Victorian-looking building,sitting self-important at the top of a hill. Sam pushes open the heavy swinging door and wanders into a room with a tiled chessboard floor and about fifty shelves fanning out from a central reception area.

You hate the library - the boring, mind numbing, lifeless library. You’ve spent too many hours in this fucking library, you want to pull your own hair out when Sam suggests going back.

Row after row of neatly lined up books with their spines facing outward, colour coded with dots, the fiction section is arranged in alphabetical order. You meander past the young adult and children’s sections with low shelves and floor cushions, to approach the more adult area with towering shelves rising high to the ceiling. The section Sam is looking for is unmarked, but surrounded by comfortable leather arm chairs and tables for quiet study. At first, muffled stillness of the place makes it hard to concentrate, but you get used to it.

You’re lying on the long wood table, staring up at the ornate ceiling, sprawled out between musty books and a unorganized sea of Sam’s notes. If you’ve learned one thing over the past three months, it’s that he’s a machine when it comes to research.

Before meeting him, you considered yourself to be fairly intellectual. You wrote a couple of stellar research papers in college and enjoy a good book here and there. But, Sam….Sam takes it to a whole new level. He has a laser focus that’s all-consuming.

Sam’s eyes shift to you, although he’s been sneaking undetected glances for a while now. Your shirt is riding up and there’s a strip of exposed skin across your lower stomach that’s been distracting him for an hour. He thinks you probably feel as soft as you look; he even has a whole scenario in the back his mind about what it would feel like to touch you there for the first time.

You shimmy, pushing a note book out of the way and he fakes enthrallment, turning an unread page.

This place is starting to give you cabin fever. It doesn’t help that he won’t let you out of his sight, it’s been close quarters for way too long. Everything little thing he does is starting annoy you. You’d give anything to pee with the door shut all the way.

“I can’t do this,” raising your arms straight over your heart, you clap your hands together.

“You aren’t actually doing anything,” Sam’s attention flicks from his book to you. “I thought you were taking a nap.”

“Sorry, I can’t sit here all day and stay focused. All the mumbo jumbo in these books is running together. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

“Well, first off you, you’re not sitting. You’re lying down. Second, we’re looking for anything related to this place and how we got here. There’s gotta be something, an old wives tale or a bedtime story. We just haven’t found it yet.”

“I’m really trying to pull my weight here, but I’m done for today. If I read another word, my brain is going to melt.”

“You haven’t even picked up a book,” Sam snips.

“And I’m not about to. I want to get out of here as bad you do, but I can’t function all cooped up like this. I’m dying here Sam, I’m withering away.” You plead dramatically, placing the back of your palm to your forehead.

Sam rolls his eyes playfully and gives in. “Yeah okay, I could use a break,” he dog ears the page and closes the book. “Wanna take a walk?”

“Yes, God yes.” You roll up enthusiastically, swinging your legs to the ground. “Bet you can’t catch me.”

And you’re off.

Sam grins as you bounce down the steep stairs of the library, eager to be outside in the sun. His eyes settle on your ass, then up to the curve of your hips. His mind wanders for a moment before he pulls it out of the gutter.

Shadow Hill may be a prison, but it’s a beautiful one.

He follows you, watching as you head toward the small park at the center of town. It’s amazing to him that you manage to stay so upbeat, despite everything that’s happened. You just wake up morning after morning with a smile on your face, roll up your sleeves, and dig right in. As you told him once, months ago, ‘You can be a victim of the situation or you can get to the bottom of it and figure shit out. I’ve never been a victim.’ Sam’s glad that it’s you who ended up here with him, even if you do drive him crazy.

It’s mid October. When you two first arrived here, the trees were clothed in green until just a few days ago, then all of a sudden there was a riot of colour. It was as if the season jumped into the park instead of fading in as it usually would and all was that more magnificent for doing so. Upon the newly softened mud are the acorns - from green to pale brown. The night air is getting colder every evening and soon the days will follow, winter is on it’s way.

Sam smiles as you turn to him, waving for him to join you at the swing set. “I’m too big for this thing, Y/N,” he laughs, trotting over to you.

“I know, but I need someone to push me.” You tease, kicking off the ground and swinging backward. Sam gives you a mighty push and you swing high, making your stomach flutter. A laugh of genuine amusement escapes your lips and he chuckles with you.

“Hold on, the last thing we need is you falling and breaking an arm.”

“I know what I’m doing! I used to be a playground professional back in elementary school.” You pump your legs, trying to go higher. This is what you needed, just a moment to forget about these fucked up circumstances. You both need a little levity.

“Let’s eat at the pub tonight, they have all the stuff for burgers. I’ll cook.”

“It’s a deal.” Sam smiles wide and gives you another push.

**Six Months**

“So, you’re telling me that werewolves, freaking _real-life-howl-at-the-moon, claw-and-fangs, I’ll-eat-your-heart-out,_ werewolves really exist?”  You raise an eyebrow, gesturing wildly with your beer. You’re wrapped in heavy blanket, sitting in a lawn chair on the roof of Anderson’s Toy shop, the tallest building in town.

This has become your new favorite place after Sam had pulled you up here one night to see if there was better view of the town’s perimeter. He sure as hell found it. It’s getting colder, but after a few beers, the chill fades away.

“Yup, one hundred percent real.” Sam’s face falls a little as he peels at the label on his bottle. Being alone with one person for this long brings out a brutal honestly in each other. “A long time ago I met girl, a woman, who was a werewolf and didn’t even know it. She was a good person and I had to fucking shoot her. It was awful.”

You watch him shift in his chair, readjusting his hips. You’re getting to know Sam’s body language pretty well. “You slept with her, huh?”

“I really liked her.” Sam avoids the question, shooting you a nod of his head. His eyes tick in your direction. “That was hard situation though….I’ve had to do a lot of shit I didn’t want to.”

“What about vampires?” You continue on for his sake, moving away from the murder of former lovers.  

“Oh yeah, lots of them.” He muses.

“Thirty Days of Night or Edward Cullen vampires?”

“Definitely not Twilight. There’s nothing romantic about them…but they’re not all bad, like anything else I suppose,” he shrugs, shaking his hair out of his face.

“This is unbelievable. Vampires are real and Sam Winchester knows who Edward Cullen is.” He glares at you, raising the bottle to his lips.

“I could tell you stories about some of the things Dean and I hunted that would blow your mind. Djinn, shapeshifters, witches….dragons.” He points at you for added effect and clearly enjoys the look on your face.

“Shut up, dragons?!” You shake your head as he affirms his statement. “You’re shitting me.”

“I swear,” he chuckles placing a hand symbolically over his heart.

“So, it’s just you and your brother, hunting dragons and banging bar chicks, huh? Sounds like an 80’s movie.”

“I never said anything about bar chicks,” Sam smiles and takes a swig of his beer. “It’s a lot of time on the road, shitty motels, bad pizza, and heartburn. It’s isolating. You don’t really get the chance to have relationships or friends. But, it’s the family business.”

“If it doesn’t make you happy, then why do you do it?”

“Because someone has to.” He shrugs, “I tried to quit, more than once, actually. It took me several tries to realize that people die either way. If someone died because I wasn’t there to help, I couldn’t live with that. I have to try.”

You sigh, looking at him with a gentle affection which makes him rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say anything,” you wave your hands in mock defeat.

“You’re about to.” He corrects you, grabbing another beer and twisting the cap off.

“Sam, you’re just…a good guy, a really good guy.” The light is fading now with the sun setting, but you can see the blush flourish in his cheeks.

Sam has the kind of face that stops women in their tracks. You guess he must get used to that, the sudden pause in a person’s natural expression when they look his way, followed by overcompensating with a nonchalant gaze and a weak smile. It doesn’t help that he’s so modest with it;you imagine it made the girls fall for him all the more. Despite all the opportunities that undoubtedly came his way, you get the distinct impression that he’s a man who prizes the subtle details of a person and thoughtful conversation above lipstick and high-heels.

He’s handsome alright, but inside he’s also beautiful.

“Tell me about Jack,” Sam interjects, with a self-satisfied smirk. He knows it’s a topic that gets a rise out of you. There’s something slowly simmering between you and Sam, something neither of you acknowledge. “Jack, the high school drama teacher…”

“You just love to say that don’t you?” You swat at his arm while shifting in your chair to face him. “Jack is….up front, what you see is what you get. He’s kind and he thinks about other people. He’s a really great teacher, he cares about the kids. He’s cheesy, he wrote me poem for our six month anniversary.”

“A renaissance man,” he wiggles his eyebrows.

“I hate poetry,” you admit, laughing to yourself. “But, he was so damn proud of that God awful poem that I had it  framed,” You rolled your eyes dramatically, recalling the moment in your mind. “Jack is a thoughtful guy with everyone else, but he never  took the time to really know me.” You hesitate, your thoughts morphing. “Sam, if I ask you a question, will you be totally honest with me?”

“Of course.” He sets down his bottle, his face falling serious.

“Do you think we’re going to get out of here?”

Sam’s brow furrows as his fidgets. Every other time you’ve brought up the topic, he’s replied with a self-assured answer, but now he’s faltering. He sucks in a breath as if he’s getting ready to pull off the band aid, “I don’t know.”

“Me neither,” you mutter, tipping back your drink. “What do you think your brother’s doing right now?”

“Honestly?” Sam rubs the back of his neck. “Either he’s losing his mind trying to find me or he’s given up.” His voice grows quiet.

“I used to go to my parents’ house every Sunday for dinner. I babysat my niece, took her to soccer practice twice a week. It’s been half a year, by this time, us not being there is their new normal. Someone else does all the shit we used to do. I worry that maybe we’ll end up being just a memory.” You kick at the empty glass bottle near your feet.

Sam reaches over, his hand covering yours. He doesn’t say anything because honestly, there’s nothing to say. So, you sit in silence, hand in hand, as the moon rises over the horizon.

**Eight Months**

It’s at this moment, after the better of a year, that you go over the deep end. You jumped right into this real life mystery with Sam and held your own emotions at bay for the sake of keeping your own sanity, but now that facade is crumbling. You’ve made no progress and the once certain hope of getting out of this place seems less and less everyday.

You wake up early. Sam is still sleeping, belly down and open mouthed on the other bed. He’s snoring gently, somewhere deep and seemingly peaceful. You quietly dress, pulling on a thick sweater and pair of his clean socks. Sneaking out of the room, you pad down to the lobby, where the ever-present roaring fire is crackling with life as snow falls outside.

The front bay window looking out onto main street reveals the likeness of an unfinished painting; so much of the canvas still perfectly white, as if waiting for the artists hand to return. The morning light struggles through the murky clouds and is losing the battle. The wind howls, piling up snow in drifts, blinding the glass pane with ice-white dust.

Blustery winter mornings like this remind you of your dad and reading books in front of your grandmother’s fireplace. You wonder if you’ll ever see him again, ever hold his hand or hear him call you babygirl.

You have the full breakdown when you realize that you can’t remember Jack’s face…or your parents. You have a vague idea of what they looked like, but you just can’t fill in the details anymore. They have become a silhouette, almost as if they walked out of a photograph and only left behind a black outline. There is an ache that comes and goes, always returning in quiet moments like this. You settle into the armchair closest to the fire, tucking your feet under you.

Your heart breaks. You grieve.

Eyes dripping with tears, your walls, the walls that hold you up and make you strong, simply collapse. Brick by brick, they fall in salty drops fall from your chin, drenching your shirt. Perhaps these tears will help wash the memories out. You press your head into your hands sobbing, crying out as your chest trembles and heaves with raw, painful emotion.

You cry for your mother and father who you know will have gone out their minds looking for you. Family has always come first, they know you’d never just pick up and disappear by choice. After this long, they will only assume one thing, you’re dead. There’s no other reason for you to vanish without a trace.

Then there’s Jack. You’d been dating a little less than year, but the relationship progressed fast. You’re thirty and he was a bit a older, old enough to not want to waste any more time. He was so serious about you, perhaps a little more than you wanted. You’re pretty sure he was going to propose and  you’re fairly sure that you would have said yes. That was then andt seems like a lifetime ago.

Now, all these thoughts rip at your insides as you grieve for a life that’s certainly moving on without you.

You don’t hear Sam come down the stairs so he startles you when he places a hand on your leg while dropping down to his knees in front of you. You blink with heavy tears trapped in your lashes. He’s still half asleep, his eyes heavy, hair wild and mussed. His mouth twists in displeasure at your pain.

He doesn’t say anything, he just grabs your elbows, pulls you forward and wraps his arms around you. It’s been so long since someone touched you like this. The feeling of his embrace combined with the comforting smell of a man hits you like a narcotic. You melt into him, pressing your nose into his neck while tears continue to fall. You weep, hand clutching at his shirt.

Sam holds you in silence until your despair recedes and your breathing is even and hot at the skin of his neck. His hand are moving in long, slow trails up and down your spine. You feel his touch moving from your back to your side, rubbing as his palms catch at the hem of your sweater. His finger accidently slips under,  a simple mistake, just a quick touch of skin on skin that awakens something deeper.

Your breasts are crushed into his chest where you feel his pounding heartbeat. You take a deep breath, inhaling his scent. Your hand slides up his arm and shoulder, stopping to caress the base of his neck before combing your fingers into his hair, sliding over his scalp.

Sam draws a quick breath, pulling his head back just far enough to look up at you. Your raw eyes don’t leave his. He’s so close, you lean forward, your nose pressing into his, lips just a shy moment from connection.

One of his big hands moves from your side, cupping your face as his thumb trails along your jawline, then up, hooking your bottom lip under his finger. You lean in to kiss him and he moves back in tandem, gulping and sitting back on his haunches.

“We can’t,” he mutters, closing his eyes momentarily as if he’s trying to reset himself.

You wipe your hands through your hair then over your wet face, suddenly embarrassed. The silly idea that he might want you the way you want him seems ludicrous.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you quip, scampering out of your chair and up the stairs.

“Y/N…” you hear Sam call after you, but you don’t stop.

You bound into the room, stripping quickly before stepping under the shower, where you sit down in the tub under the unrelenting stream of hot water. You think about Sam and the way his hands felt on you. Your stomach twists in guilt as you remember how badly you wanted Sam to kiss you, to hold you and…well let’s just say you’ve thought about Sam doing a wide variety of things to you.

You don’t know it, but you’ll look back on this as the moment you let go of the life that came before and move forward, here, with Sam.

::

Sam has dreams about you. Well, actually they’re nightmares.

He dreams you’re gone.

It’s always the same, he wakes up with his heart pounding out of his chest, desperate to make sure you’re still there.

In this dream, Sam blinks awake in the dark of a bedroom, reaching for you out of habit. In his version of events, you should be in the bed next to him, sleeping peacefully with your sleep warm cheek pressed into the edge of his pillow, but you’re not. His hands fall on cold sheets.

This is when the panic starts.

He searches what should be the usual places, the bathroom, the lobby, the cafe across the street, but you’re nowhere to be found. He runs from building to building, calling your name. It’s dark and he doesn’t have a flashlight, so he stumbles and trips through the night as the desperation builds.

He finds himself on Miller’s Path, a bike trail that leads out of town, twisting deep in the thick, pine woods. Following the trail under the moonlight, his eyes adjust so that he can run faster…he knows this is the way you came. He can feel you.

He tumbles into a clearing and there you are. You turn to him, as your thin white nightgown billows in the winds, wrapping tight around your body. There’s a ball of white light growing in the air just above your head.

“What’s happening?” Sam asks, his eyes wide. “You shouldn’t be out here, not without me.”

“I’m sorry Sam,” your face falls, “but I’m leaving. They said I can go home, but I have to do it now.”

“But…” Sam stutters. “But, what about me? Can I come with you?”

You shake your head adamantly as if you’re explaining yourself to a child. “No, you have to stay. Only one of us can go and it’s me.”

A surge of confusion and fear rises in Sam, his chest feels too tight and he can’t breathe. He fights back the tears threatening to spill. This can’t be happening, you wouldn’t leave him. “If you go…I’ll be alone.”

“Yes, for a very long time, maybe forever,” you confirm, matter of factly.

“Y/N, please don’t leave me here.” He moves toward you and you step back in unison, closer to the orb.

“I have to go, people are waiting for me.” You reach out toward the light and look back at him.

“Don’t.” He pleads, his arm outstretched. “Stay with me.”

“Why would I?” You shrug emotionless, turning from him and walking into the light.

There’s a blinding flash and when Sam blinks you’re gone and he’s alone in the clearing, in the town….in this place.

**Eleven Months, One Week**

You’re lying on your back with Sam beside you, sprawled out in the middle of main street on a scratchy wool blanket. You squint through a handheld telescope.; just two crazy kids in the middle of the road, stargazing and drinking scotch from the bottle.

“I think that’s a planet.” You hand him the lens and point to the general area of the sky that’s housing a large, orange light.

“Where?” Sam’s mouth falls open as he searches for your spot.

“To the right,” you reach over and push his wrist in the right direction. You’re careful to only touch his sleeve.

There’s been no skin-on-skin contact for a couple months now, except for when you nearly fell down the steps at the hotel. Sam caught you by your forearm, nearly hissing. He’d shaken his hand as if you’d burned him…but you don’t talk about those things. In fact, Sam goes out of his way to avoid acknowledging any of the feelings between you.

“I see it, I don’t think that’s a planet though. Probably just space junk.” He side eyes you, teasing and waiting to see if you’ll take the bait. He drops his shoulders and gives you an ‘I told you so’ face. “We should get some astronomy books from the library, see if we’re even looking at real stars.”

“You really think they aren’t real?” These kind of thoughts never occur to you. You’ve reached a certain level of acceptance for this brave new world.

“I don’t know, it’s possible.” Sam sits up on his elbows and takes a swig from the bottle. His tolerance level puts yours to shame, but tonight he’s drunk. He makes a sour face and swallows, sitting up. Shaking his head, he turns to look down at you, “I wanna ask you a question?”

“I don’t know if I like the sound of this,” you’re only half teasing. “It’s just you and me Winchester. I’m an open book.”

“This scar…” Sam reaches out and runs his fingers over the light scar just under your collarbone. You flinch from the contact, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Touching, or lack thereof, is an unspoken rule ever since the almost kiss that created a steady, constant tension. “You rub it when you’re tired.. How’d you get it?”

A line appears between your brows as you grimace. He’s delving into uncomfortable territory. He pulls his hand away and right on cue, your fingers replace his. “I, um…”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Sam drops his head bashfully and starts to stand, “It’s none of my business.”

“Sam, sit the fuck down.” You sigh, grabbing his elbow, pulling him back to the ground. He falls back unceremoniously beside you with an oompf. “The short version is I dated a guy a while ago, Alex. I thought he was great and I was painfully wrong. We were together for a couple years and then we just…grew apart. I broke up with him and he didn’t take it very well. Actually, that’s being too generous, he went batshit crazy. After a whole series of crazy stalker shit, he broke into my apartment and tried to kill me. This scar is where he stabbed me.”

“Jesus,” Sam mutters, wiping a hand over his face in distress.

“But, one of the things you don’t know about me Sam Winchester, is that you’re sitting next to the Willcome County Take Back The Night women’s self defense instructor. I might not be Chuck Norris, but I still broke his nose and kicked him hard enough in the nuts that he had to have surgery.”

Sam winces, involuntarily scrunching up his nose, “Good. You should’ve done more than that.”

“You might be right.” You agree. “It messed me up for a long time. It took the better part a decade to trust anyone like that again.”

“I woulda killed him.” Sam surprises you with that one, he doesn’t even try to hide the disgust in his voice. “I’ll never let anything like that happen to you.”

You roll onto your side, propping your head on your hand. You’ve known him long enough now to understand that Sam needs to protect people, it’s part of his DNA. “I know you wouldn’t.”

“You better.” When he’s been drinking he likes to have the last word.

“Your turn, I want to ask you about something.” You shift to get a better view of his face.

Sam gulps and looks down at you. “Okay.”

“Sometimes, when you’re sleeping you talk. You call out to people. It’s mostly Dean, but sometimes there are other names….”

“Who?” Sam looks back up at the stars, clenching his jaw.

“Sometimes Jess…and every one in a while Amelia.” His upper lip twitches as those names rattle out of your mouth.

“Oh.” Sam shifts onto his side to face you, mirroring your position. “Really?”

“Yeah. Amelia not as much, but when you do it doesn’t sound like it’s a good dream. I wonder about you, about Sam the guy, instead of Sam the hunter.” When he doesn’t answer, you give him an out, “you don’t have to tell me.”

“Y/N, sit the fuck down.” He repeats your earlier words with a sad smile. Despite the heaviness of the topic, he’s thoroughly enjoying the roll reversal. “Well, they were two very different people.”

Sam pauses and you think he’s struggling for words. In reality he’s wrestling with that idea that he’s had these feelings for three women in his life and he’s about to tell you about the other two.

“I met Jess in college and she was it for me. The moment I saw her, I knew I wanted to be with her. She was smart and beautiful, she saw so much good in me. She believed I could do or be anything and she taught me how to believe in myself. She called me out on my shit. She was a force of nature. In a different world, we would have gotten married and had a couple of kids.”

“What happened?”

“She died.” Sam purses his lips, staring at the palm of his hand. “It was brutal, really violent, something no one should ever have to go through. She died because of me, ‘cause she was with me. It took me a long time to forgive myself for that.”

“God, Sam…I’m sorry.” You want to wrap your arms around him, hold him the way he did for you. But you can’t, not yet.

“And Amelia she was…Dean was gone when I met her. I thought maybe we could make it work, but in the end I left because it was the right thing to do. She wasn’t mixed up in any of this shit and I didn’t want to force that on her. Once you know about this world,you can’t opt out.”

“Did you love her?” You’re feeling bold tonight, but he’s offering answers to questions that have been burning a hole in your brain for a long time.

“Yeah…yes, I did.” Sam responds without hesitation, making eye contact with you and never looking away.

“So, what about now?”

“Now…” Sam shakes off the sentimentality, as he grins at you, tipping back the bottle. He’s done talking and you’re not about to push further. “Now I have you. It’s safe to say at this point I’ve spent more time with you than any other women in my past, that includes my mom.”

“You know, you’re right. I’m just now fully realizing what a lucky guy you are. I am wonderful company.” You take the bottle from him and take a sip, your face souring when the burn hits your throat. “I mean, I smell good, I’m hilarious, I can cook, I can put up with whatever mess you leave in the bathroom every morning.”

“You’re a real gift.” Sam chides. He pats his thighs and looks around as if there could possibly be something new. Nothing is ever new in Shadow Hill. “I’m done for. I have to go to bed before I end up spending the night out here.”

You follow his lead, standing and collecting the blanket.

As you wander back to the hotel, Sam wraps an arm around your shoulder. There’s been more physical contact tonight than you’ve had in months. There’s such a comfort in this closeness, that you lean into his side, soaking up as much as you can.

“What would I do with you?” He chimes, his arm dropping from you shoulder to you waist. He gives you squeeze and your heart picks up a few beats.

“A lot more research. I’m saving you from yourself.”

**One Year**

“What is going on?” At Sam’s request you’re covering your eyes, as he leads you by the hand across main-street. The bells rings as he opens the door of Anthony’s Italian Cafe .

“You’ll find out, don’t peek. Be careful here, there’s a step.” He guides you through the maze of chair and tables.

“Okay, you can take look now.” Sam taps your wrist and you open your eyes.

There’s a table set up by the kitchen, a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers in the center, flanked by dishes filled with wonderful looking foods. “What’s all this?”

“It’s our anniversary. One year in Shadow Hill.” Sam grins hesitantly, trying to gage your reaction. “I figured it could be a sad, dramatic thing or we could celebrate the fact that we made it this far.”

“Sam.” You drag out his name, digesting his words. A year. It’s been a whole year.

“Too much?” He offers when you don’t say anything else.

“No, not at all. It’s exactly what we need.” You let him pull out your chair for you and take a seat. “This is where you’ve been all day?”

“I have to warn you, I’m not the best cook, but I think we have my version of all your favorites here. Mussels, lasagna, caesar salad and garlic bread.” He proudly shows off his cooking as you uncork the wine.

“This is very impressive and incredibly thoughtful.” You raise your glass, clinking it to his before taking the inaugural sip. Before the night is done, the two of you  finish three bottles and half a pan of lasagna, despite the taste.

You eat Sam’s bland Italian cooking and tell him how much you like it. By the time you get to dessert (two pieces of cheesecake he liberated from the Sweet Shop), you’re a little drunk and thoroughly enjoying yourself. Sam’s telling you a story about Dean trying to do laundry that has you in stitches, laughing with honest amusement as he chuckles with you.

“I hope I get to meet Dean someday. I’d like to see the man behind these stories. I feel like you’re exaggerating.”

“Trust me, if anything, I’m downplaying it. If we ever get home, he’s the first person I’ll introduce you to.” Sam’s smile fades as he plays at the stem of his wine glass. “I’ve been thinking. I’m not giving up on finding a way out of here. I never will, but we can’t stop living either. I’m feeling more and more like we’re treading water, in perpetual state of limbo.”

“I know. Our lives remind me a goldfish I had when I was a kid,” you admit. If we’re honest you gave up on any chance of going home a long time ago. “What does that mean for you, to start living? Please tell me it means we can finally move out of the hotel and into one of the houses?”

“We can definitely do that.” Sam chews at his lip, before shifting his eyes to you. “I don’t know why it was the two of us that ended up here. I don’t know if there’s some grand plan or this is just random chaos. The one thing I do know is us. I have…certain feelings for you…and I think you feel the same way…” He looks to you, hoping for a confirmation.

“I do.” You answer softly, setting your glass down as he continues. There’s a nervous pressure pushing at your chest.

“It scares me. It’s just the two of us here and that makes this a tricky situation. If we fuck up what we have, if we try for something more and it doesn’t work out, we’re stuck with each whether we like it or not.” Sam finishes his wine and pours himself another glass, avoiding your stare.

“That’s true, we might crash and burn.” You sit back in your seat trying to deduce where this is going to end up.

“It’s important that you know tonight, this dinner, wasn’t some grand romantic gesture. Tonight was about you as my friend, Y/N. I haven’t…” he pauses as his voices shifts up an octave. “I haven’t had the chance to really just be like this,o just talk to someone without hiding part of who I am or what I do. You accept every insane thing I tell you…I don’t know if it’s this place or if we’d have this connection outside of Shadow, but I’m thankful for this time with you.”

His voice trails off and you reach across the table, grabbing his forearm, squeezing. “It’s not just Shadow Hill, Sam. No matter what happens, we’re going to take care of each other.” You speak back to him the words he told you that second day, when you were crumbling and terrified. “Whether we’re here or back in the real world, this thing doesn’t change. It’s you and me.”


	3. Year Two

**One Year, Three Days  
**

“This is the one.” You stand beside Sam in the fading light of the afternoon, the wind tossing his hair around his face. You cross your arms, pulling the jacket tighter. You’ve been inside every house in the residential area of Shadow Hill, but none of them felt quite right, not until this one.

It’s at the very end of the cul-de-sac, where there’s more room between the houses, not to mention the forest in the back yard, which flanks your new home with thick pine woods.

You know just by looking at the outside that this one is the right fit. The deep blue siding reminds you of the color of ocean in books, a rich blue that feels  calm and peaceful.

“You sure this is the one? How do you know?” Sam inquires, tilting his head, trying to determine what makes this place different from the other forty houses you’ve spent days touring.

“I’m not sure,” you shrug, admiring for another moment more then grab the wrist of his jacket and pull him toward the steps.  “It just feels like us.”

Once you step inside, your instincts are only confirmed. The living room is warmly lit with a soft fire, filled with overstuffed chairs and rich colors. Leading off the living room, is a grand oak dining table, big enough for an entire family. The kitchen is new and sleek, pots and pans hanging from hooks above the island. This house feels like a home, almost like someone’s lived here before.

“I like it,” Sam nods in approval, pouting his bottom lip. “Let’s check out the second floor.” You follow Sam upstairs, finding several large bedrooms with large beds, each more luxurious than the last. It’s  a far cry from the shitty little hotel room that you’ve shared for the last year.

“Why are there so many pillows?” Sam squints, “no one person could possibly need that many pillows.”

“They’re decorative…I like them.” You smile at him, swinging your hips like a happy-go-lucky child.

“I won’t even attempt to fight you for a room, you choose the one you want.” Sam grins, nudging open the door at the end of the hall, then peering in. You frown, a sudden reality hitting you for the first time. “What?” He asks, his smirk falling at your abrupt shift in attitude.

“It’s gonna be a little weird not sleeping in the same room, that’s all.”  You walk past him, inspecting the large bathroom, thrilled to see a soaker tub big enough for three people.  The look on his face is hard to read, “I’m used to waking up and seeing you right there, talking and farting in your sleep.”

Chuckling, Sam shakes his head “You don’t even want me to tell you some of the noises you make.” You raise your eyebrows and he continues “Yeah, I’m not the only one who talks in their sleep. Oh, don’t stop, harder….lots of sex dreams.”

“Sam!” You yell, slapping his arm. You drop your eyes out of embarrassment, giggling because you have pretty good idea of who you were dreaming about. When you look up, there’s a broad smile plastered across his face, his chest shaking as he laughs to himself. “I hate you,” you grit slapping him again.

“Who am I to so say what it was about, maybe you’ve just been dreaming about a really great full body massage.” He cracks himself up, leaning into the wall for support.

“You’re a real comedian.” You sigh, trapped in the space between embarrassment and amusement. “I want this room, the big one.”

**One Year, Five Weeks**

You think the house will help to alleviate some of the tension between the two of you and, for a couple weeks, it does. Sam has one rule above all others, you don’t separate. You get it, you understand why it’s important that you’re always within earshot. In theory, anything could happen, but the fact is nothing ever happens. Your lives become a mundane routine, planned around books and spells and meals and that’s wearing you down day by day.

The little things Sam does drive you crazy and not in a good way. Like, the way his spoon always hits the side of his bowl when he’s eating soup or how he chews on the ends of all the pens until they’re twisted into mangled plastic. He leaves the toilet seat up and the milk on the counter and he always has to know where you are, every fucking moment.

“It works better if your use the scrub brush,” Sam recommends, sipping his coffee.

“I like the sponge.” You side eye him, elbow deep in rubber gloves and dirty dishes.

“You know, you don’t really have to do that. If you just wait, they’ll clean themselves.” He leans against the counter, seemingly intent on watching you wash.

“No, I do have to do it. Otherwise, they’ll sit here all day and everytime I come into the kitchen, I have to stare at a sink full of dishes.” The organized scientist in you has been rearing it’s ugly head. Sam’s a wonderful man in so many ways, but he’s obscenely messy.

“Why are you mad?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m not mad,” you grit, jaw clenched.

“Really? Because you seem angry.”

This is the point in cartoons where steam blows out of someone’s ears. Every bit of resentment, indignation, and sexual frustration is boiling to the surface. 

“I said I’m fine.” You turn away from him, dropping a bowl to the floor where it shatters with a sickening crack. “God, damn it!” You scream, clenching your fists.

To Sam, this seems like a massive over reaction, but for you, it’s about so much more than a broken bowl.

“It’s not that big of a deal. You get the big pieces and I’ll grab the broom.” Sam moves toward the cupboard.

That’s when you erupt.

“Sam, for fucks sake stop telling me what to do! Jesus, I’m capable of cleaning up broken glass!” You shake with rage.

“What the hell is your problem?” Sam shoots back, you’re both ready for a fight.

“You’re my problem!” you scream. As if it had been planned, you step (with all your weight) directly onto a sharp shard of glass that cuts into your foot like a knife through butter. You shriek, falling onto your butt, coming down hard on your tailbone with a sickening smack on the tile floor. “Fuck, oh….oh.”

Sam crouches in front of you, with his hand around your ankle before you have a chance to process what’s happening. He lifts your foot up to get a better view and cringes, “That’s deep.”

“Let me go,” you kick at him, not hard enough to do any damage, but enough to get a point across.

“I need to get it out,” he scoffs, tightening his grasp.

“I’ll do it myself, I said don’t touch me,” you hiss, pulling your leg back again. This time, he lets you go, and you wince as you scoot away from him.

“I’m just trying to help.” His tone betrays the words and there’s venom under the surface.

“I don’t need your help, I’m fine.”

He watches from the other side of the kitchen as you inspect your foot. He was right, it is deep, maybe three or four inches sunk into flesh. It’s a thick gash that’s pooling blood all over the light grey floor. Your stomach turns a little when you realize that you’ve backed yourself into the corner and have to pull it out of your own foot.

The pain comes without warning, as if really seeing the injury triggers the physical response. A sharp ache rises from your foot and up your legs and tears well over your eyes before you can stop.

It fucking hurts and suddenly you’re worried maybe you’ve managed to really hurt yourself. What if you hit a tendon or actually did some permanent damage. The distress rises to your chest as you break out into a sweat.

The pain spirals and the blood isn’t stopping. God, you hate the sight of blood, it’s always made you lightheaded.

“Sam…” you panic, voice trembling.

“Here, let’s get you up.” Without missing a beat, he scoops you into his arm and carries you to the living room like he’s done it a thousand times before.That’s all it takes for him to forget what a bitch you’ve been; he hears the fear when you say his name and all is forgotten. After jogging to the bathroom, he reappears with a small bag.

“It hurts,” you spit, covering your eyes with your arm. You don’t want to look, the thought of all that blood and glass makes your stomach turn over.

“I bet,” he raises your leg into his lap, blood dripping all over his jeans. He doesn’t seem to care, though. You feel his wide hand slide under your yoga pants, halfway up your calf, squeezing lightly, “I’ll fix it.”

With those words, Sam bears down, holding your leg still with a firm grip and rips the glass out. Not only is there pain, but more concerning is the steady stream of blood gushing out that is warm and slick, streaming down your foot. You don’t speak, you just make a strangled noise that Sam responds to by squeezing your upper thigh.

Your eyes pop open and the look on his face makes you feel even worse, “It’s bad huh?”

He nods tightly, “You’re gonna need stitches.” When you whimper, he just nods and moves toward the kitchen. “Don’t worry, you won’t remember. Gonna get you real drunk first.”

**One Year, Four Months**

You twirl spaghetti around your fork, coiling the noodles in just the right amount before popping it into your mouth. “Oh my gosh, Sam” you nod enthusiastically, “this is really good.”

“See, I’m getting better. I used the recipe this time,” he chuckles as you both dig in. You’ve been swapping childhood trauma stories all night and now, it’s your turn.

“We used to go on these camping trips when I was kid. Every year, my dad would pack up way too much shit in the back of our station wagon and drag us out to the middle of nowhere.” Sam sits back in his seat, sipping his beer. He likes when you tell the stories, he always seems fascinated by what was usually your boring, run of the mill childhood memories.

“So, your dad’s an outdoorsman?” he inquires, crossing his ankles.

“Big time. He was in the army and when he got out, he spent years teaching wilderness survival. He’d live outside if he could.” You pour yourself more wine as you continue. “So, he decides that we’re going to the Smokey Mountains for two weeks. He drags the whole freaking family out there, my mom and sister, my cousins and asshole uncle Ted. I didn’t care about any of them, I was so excited just to spend time with my dad. He’d taught me, what I thought at the time was a lot of bushcraft skills, I mean, I was just a little girl, but I knew how to build a fire and get a fish off a line, so I thought I was hot shit. I was desperate to prove myself. I never wanted to be like other girls my age, I wanted to hunt and fish and chop trees. I don’t know, I guess I thought it was the best way make my dad proud. So, we’d been there about a week when I decided that I wanted to go off on my own adventure. I packed a bag and wandered off. My cousin, Ryan, was supposed to be watching me, but he was too busy reading comics and no one else noticed.”

“Oh no…” Sam winces, rocking back in his chair.

“It gets better,” you promise, “I followed the trail for a while and then decided that I was fully capable of making my own way in the world and I ventured off, like an idiot, into the woods. I probably walked for an hour before I decided I wanted to go back to camp,but it was too late; I was so lost. I walked in every direction and had no freaking idea which way was out. I was eight years old, with a ‘My Little Pony’ backpack and a pair of pink binoculars. I wasn’t dressed for anything more than a trip to the park and the sun started to go down….I was so scared, Sam. This huge storm was rolling in and when it started to rain, I just remember curling into a ball and crying”

“What did you do?” Sam’s enthralled, picking at the label on his bottle.

“I started thinking about my dad, he always said that if you aren’t finding a solution, you’re contributing to the problem. So, I looked for a solution, which in my case, was finding the thickest pine tree I possibly could and crawling underneath. It hurt like hell, I was all scratched up, but I knew it would at least keep me out of the rain. And that storm, God, I hate thunderstorms to this day. It was so loud and there was much lightning. I remember being curled up in the mud under that tree, freezing, and telling myself out loud that I was going to be alright.  Even as a kid, I knew that I had to make myself believe that I was going to survive and I was capable of handling the situation. It was going to be awful and I was going to cry - but that was okay, as long as I made it through.”

“You were out there all night?” Sam leans forward setting his drink on the table.

“Yup. It was almost twenty-four hours before my dad found me. I was wet and dirty, but I was in one piece. You know he didn’t even yell at me? He just hugged me and told me he loved me.”

“That’s incredible, the whole thing,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I’d like to meet him.”

“You will,” you take a sip from your glass, pulling your knees up to your chest, “he’s gonna like you. He’s a ‘get shit done’ kind of guy. You kinda remind me of him.”

“Yeah we’ll see.” Sam’s been less and less positive lately.

“Yeah, we will,” you confirm.

Sam’s still for a moment, his eyes  shifting as his own thoughts rush in.

“When, ah, Dean and I were kids, my dad was gone all the time. My first real memory is being in this smelly, dirty motel room and crying because I just wanted my dad to stay with me. I didn’t understand why he left, you know? Dean must have gone out or something because I distinctly remember that when he came back to the room, I turned my pillow over because I was afraid he’d see it was wet and he’d know I was crying.” Sam loses himself in that memory for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.

“How old were you?”

“I don’t know, four maybe? Young enough that no one in their right mind would leave Dean in charge of me.” He scoffs and takes a drink, “That’s just how it was though. My mom died and dad needed to hunt, needed to fill that void.”

“Sounds to me like he was coping the only way he knew how to,” you suggest. Sam’s talked about his father before and you know there’s neverending layers to that relationship.

“I don’t hold it against him, not anymore. He did the best he could under the circumstances.  For a long time, all I wanted to do was everything that he hated. Just be a normal guy, get married, have a couple kids, and be a better father than he ever was.”

“What? You don’t want that anymore?”

“I’m thirty-three and, forgetting for a moment that we’re stuck in Shadow Hill, I’m deeper into this life than my dad ever was. If you care about people, you don’t make them a part of this life.”

“Maybe you don’t get to make that choice for other people,” you shoot back. “Everyone has their shit, Sam, and I’ll give it to you that your shit is crazier than most, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be happy.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He gulps down the last of his beer, “I’m going to bed.”

**One Year, Five Months**

You’re going alone, you’re going no matter what he says because you don’t care about his rules anymore.

Sam’s reading in the living room, so engrossed in The Handmaid’s Tale that he doesn’t really hear you when you square off your shoulders and say, “I’m going for a walk.”

He just smiles up at you, completely oblivious to whatever you just told him, “Whatever you want.”

If we’re being a hundred percent honest, you know it’s going to piss him off. But, there’s no way you are both going to survive without a little alone time every now and then. If it keeps up like this, one of you is going to kill the other.

You wander down the street and behind the houses to Miller’s Path, leading out of the town and into the looming pine forest that surrounds every side of Shadow Hill. After walking for some time, you veer off the path, heading toward a clearing in the distance.

You maneuver through the brush, the trees of yesteryear, fallen in storms long forgotten. The seasons have been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers, yet rendering them all the more beautiful. They have the appearance of driftwood, twisting in patterns that remind you of seaside waves; even the colour of the moss is kelp-like. They are soft and damp, yet your fingers come away dry.

You tilt your head upward, feeling your hair tumble further down your back; the pines are several houses tall, reaching toward the golden rays of early fall. Birdsong comes in lulls and bursts, the silence and the singing working together as well as any improvised melody. A new smile paints itself on your face, rose-pink lips, semi-illuminated by the dappled light. Before you know it, your feet have begun to walk, body and mind both on autopilot - it’s around noon and you don’t think you’ve been gone that long.

You find the clearing, trotting happily back out into the sunlight.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sam’s voice booms, snapping you out of your solitary moment. You whip around to the sight of him standing at the edge of the tree line, his chest huffing and eyes wild.

“What, I’m just…out here.” You’re caught off guard more than anything else, stumbling over your words. Sam’s mad, breathless, nostrils flaring, pissed the fuck off.

“Just hanging out?” He throws his arms up, stepping closer to you.

“I was just taking a walk, I told you where I was going…” You step back, he looks like he might throw you over his shoulder and lug you back to the house himself.

“You’re acting like a damn kid sneaking around. What if something happened to you?”

“Nothing is gonna happen to me. What do you think is going to happen, Sam? Nothing ever fucking happens here. It’s just the same shit day after day and it’s driving me insane. It’s making me resent you and it’s not even your fault, I know that. But, I need to be able to take a walk or go to Tolliver’s or do just one damn thing on my own.”

“Y/N-”

“I’m not done! Let me finish. Look, if I could choose anyone to be here with, it would be you, Sam, it really would. I had no idea I needed you in my life before I met you,which I know sounds nuts and makes no sense whatsoever, but it’s how I feel. I like spending time with you, but I need time to be alone, I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“What if you decide you want to go for a stroll and you never come back? You just disappear. Huh? What then?”

“If I’m going to disappear, it’s going to happen whether you know where I am or not. I could be sitting next to you on the couch and poof, gone. Just like that,” you snap your fingers for added effect and he winces.

“Okay, sure, let’s just throw caution to the wind. You don’t care, right? Whatever happens, happens!” He’s screaming, pointing at you with an accusatory thrust of his arm.

“I never said that,” you glare, “stop being so dramatic! God, I hate you so much right now!”

“Screw you,” Sam, spits, lunging toward you and the next thing you know his mouth is crashing into yours. You’re still in shock, mouth hanging open as his tongue snakes past your lips, meeting your own. He tastes like almonds and salt and it is fucking wonderful. His arms engulf you, enveloping you in a crushing embrace, pulling your body flush with his. You tip your head to the side, mouth opening further to give him full access, a move which he accepts eagerly, his tongue exploring deeper as this kiss become less about rage and more about a year and half of sexual frustration. Somewhere in the back of your mind, it occurs to you that despite how good this feels, you’re still pissed. Groaning into his mouth, you place two hands in his chest and push back, parting in a breathless smack. Sam looks down at you, his shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath.

“You kissed me.” You meant is as a question, but instead you’re just stating the obvious.

“Yeah,” he flexes his jaw, “I did.”

“Well…I…” Just a moment ago there was so much you needed to say, but your head is swimming and you can’t think. “I’m not saying that I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t done-”

In the distance there’s a faint noise, growing louder. At first, you both look from side to side, but the closer the sound gets the more you realize it’s coming from above you. By the time you identify the noise as paper fluttering in the air, you can see the mystery object plummeting down toward the ground and it lands with a heavy thud on a patch of grass. You both inch toward it, Sam moving in front you with his arm out, “Don’t get too close.”

You stay behind him until you realize what you’re looking at and step forward as he grabs at the back of your shirt. “It’s alright, it’s just a book.” You bend down and pick what appears to be a very worn, very old copy of Pride and Prejudice.

“What the..,” Sam’s voice trails off as you show it to him. There’s a feather sticking from between the pages and you open it to reveal a small line of text that’s been underlined by hand.

Glancing up at Sam you clear your throat read the text, “Sometimes the last person on Earth you want to be with is the one person you can’t be without.”

“What is that, like Jane Austen?” he asks, completely perplexed.

You suppress your urge to comment on the fact that he recognizes Jane Austen when his face twists. You can watch the flutter of realization cross his face. “What?” You shift the book in your hands, “what’s wrong?”

“Someone’s watching us,” he snorts.

“But,” you hesitate trying to decide what the right questions are, “who?”

“I don’t know, but literature’s greatest hits don’t just rain the from the heavens. That was meant for us.”

“This is freaking me out.” You wipe your mouth, feeling the weight of the novel, and looking behind you.  

Sam’s words sink in; someone’s watching.

He looks from you to the book, then up to the sky. There’s a moment of silence before he loses it.  “What is this? A lesson?” he shouts, turning in a circle with his arms outstretched. “We’re listening, we’re fucking listening! Hello?” Nothing. He’s fuming, his cheeks bright red and fists clenched. He looks like he’s ready for a fight and not the kind that utilizes words. He wants to break something, frantic for anything to hit and watch his knuckles bleed.

“Sam,” you reach out, grabbing his wrist. He recoils when you touch him, pulling back as if he’s going to smack you. It’s muscle memory, something dormant left over from too many years of staying constantly vigilant and sleeping with a gun under his pillow. He cocks his fist and you stumble back, nearly falling over as he catches you.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to-” his face scrunches, to your surprise there are tears welling up in his eyes, “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

What Sam can’t tell you is the combination of emotions coursing through his veins. He’s so frustrated that he can’t even control his own reactions and it makes him feel painfully impotent.

“I know, Sam,” you drop the book to the ground and wrap yourself around him, pressing your head over his heart, “I know you wouldn’t.”

**One Year, Seven Months**

After the ‘Dr. Darcy Incident’, as you dubbed it, Sam does his best to give you more space. And just like you predicted, your relationship with him begins to heal itself almost immediately. Time away eases the urge to pick at each other and allows you to enjoy your time together again. It’s a morning like any other, except Sam isn’t there when you wander half asleep down to the kitchen. Sam’s always awake before you, a pot of coffee already brewing by the time you crack your eyes open for the first time. You assume he must need the sleep and try to recreate his normal morning routine, so that by the time he wanders into the dining room, there’s two eggs and wheat toast waiting for him.

“Good morning,” you greet him, setting your plate next to his.

“Good morning,” his voice is low and he blinks at his eggs.

“You still asleep over there?”

“I think so,” being the man that he is, he just throws you an appreciative glance and digs in.  He spends the rest of the day going through his normal routine; run, weights in the basement, then a shower and off the to library to grab a few books he wants to add to your growing in-home library. By that evening, he’s looking pale, dark circles forming under his eyes. He tells you it’s just a cold and that he just needs some sleep. You don’t think twice. Maybe he’s not feeling well, but it doesn’t set off any alarm bells. The following morning, you’re up earlier than usual, feeling uncharacteristically rested. Lacing up your sneakers, you hit the snowy pavement as the sun is rising over the horizon. It’s a beautiful morning, too cold for a walk, but it’s perfect as your pick up speed out of the neighborhood and head towards town. For several miles, all you hear is the the controlled sound of your breath and your feet hitting the ground. You push further and faster than you ever have before, extending your route up the hill past Hill’s Cinema (the one room movie theatre) and winding back down around the city center park. By the time you’re trotting back to the house, the sun is high overhead and the heat of a  bitter winter day is creeping in. Covered in a thick sheen of sweat, you head for the kitchen, pour yourself a glass of water and drink it. After a few moments,  you happen to see a foot peeking from around the corner near the bottom of the stairs.

“Sam,” you call high pitched. You don’t want to look. The tight grip of fear rises in your chest as you round the corner and find him sprawled on the floor, face first in his pajamas. Dropping to your knees, you turn him over. The moment you touch his torso, you can feel the sweat soaking through his shirt, he’s drenched. “Sam, can you hear me?” You brush away the damp hair stuck to his forehead. He’s burning up, his whole body is radiating heat. You’re not sure what to do, the only semblance of medical training you have is from watching re-runs of House on daytime cable. Shaking your hands in a panic, you try to mentally put together a list of priorities. At the top of that list is his breathing, so you press an ear to his febrile, damp chest and listen. He’s breathing shallow, but his heart is galloping a hundred miles a minute. He’s so hot, you know it has to be dangerous, his body temperature must be cooking him from the inside out.

“Sam!” You yell, right at shell of his ear. He’s three times your size and you know there’s no way you can move him on your own. “Sam! Wake up!”

When he doesn’t move, you do the only thing that comes to mind, you slap him, hard and fast right across the face. He jerks and his eyes flutter open with a groan. Thank God.

“Hey, can you hear me?” You hover over him, his eyes rolling back into this head for a moment before settling on you.

“What?” he slurs, his face contorting.

“You gotta help me Sam, you have to get up.” You move behind him, lifting him into a sitting position and fuck if he isn’t ridiculously heavy, his limp body doing nothing to assist you. “I can’t do this by myself. We just have to get to the shower, it’s right there.”

You grab his face and turn his focus to the small bathroom just off the entryway. “Okay,” he gulps and squeezes his eyes shut, “I’m dizzy.”

“I know, but we gotta do this now. Come on.” You stand in front of him, taking his hands and pulling with every ounce of strength you can muster. With a minimal amount of assistance, you hike him up, his arm grasping at your shoulders. The two of you shuffle down the hall, his weight threatening to take you both down. You get him into the shower, where he collapses onto his butt with a thud.

“My brain feels like it’s boiling,” he rubs a hand over his face.

“You’re gonna feel better in a minute.” In reality you have no idea if what you’re doing will help in the slightest, but he doesn’t need to know that. You climb in the tub behind him and he instantly falls limp between your legs, his back crushing your chest as his head leans back on your shoulder. The fever is practically pulsing through him, his cheeks are bright red and heartbeat still quick, threatening to beat out of his chest. With your shoe, you kick at the faucet until the a burst of freezing water erupts from the shower head and gushes over the both of you. You both yell in shock as the ice stream soaks your clothes and washes over your skin. After a few torturous minutes, the drop in temperature seems to calm his body. You’re shaking, teeth chattering  as you feel his hand grip your knee. He turns his head toward you, his face at your throat.

“This is not at all how imagined taking our first shower.”

“First?” You laugh, completely exasperated, chin trembling, “talk about presumptuous.”

You wrap both arm around him from behind, squeezing his wide shoulders and kissing his cheek, “You scared the shit out of me, Sam.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “didn’t meant to.”

Once he’s fully coherent, you give him aspirin, find him a change of clothes, and tuck him back into his bed. He grabs your hand as you walk away, pulling you beside him. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

You smile, patting his chest “It’s what we do, right?”

**One Year, Nine Months**

Sam has no intentions of going through your stuff, he’s just out of toothpaste and you’re out for a run. He pads into your en suite bathroom, feeling like a kid who’s trespassing in his parents bedroom. Neither of you have ever said your rooms were off limits, but there’s an unspoken respect for personal space. He pulls open a few drawers, pushing around lotions and q-tips when he sees it. He knows what the pills are the moment he lays eyes on them. Amelia’s were in the same pink, little plastic case she pulled out of her purse every time the alarm on her phone went off. Looking behind and satisfied you’re nowhere nearby, he pops the case open, to find half the pack empty.

You’re taking birth control pills.

If he’d asked you about it, you would have told him that you found them in the pharmacy a year ago, right after the ‘almost kiss’ and figured that taking precautions was the smart thing to do. You didn’t know where this thing with Sam was going, but it felt like it might sneak up on you someday and you didn’t want any more surprises.

Sam looks at the pills again, weighing out several scenarios until he hears you bounding up the stairs. He hastily shoves the pack back in the drawer behind an open box of tampons. He finds the toothpaste just as you swing through the doorway, sweating and breathless.

“Jesus Christ,” you jump startled at the sight of him.

“Sorry,” he smiles tightly, waving a tube of Crest, “just trying to brush my teeth.”

**One Year, Ten Months**

You slide on sock feet over the hardwood of the living floor and take a seat at the edge of the arm chair. “I’m going to the greenhouse.”

“You want me to come with you?” Sam glances up from his nest on the floor with a pen between his teeth.  He’s sitting cross legged in front of the coffee table, books and notes everywhere.

“No, I’m good, I need some quality time in with my African Violets.” You tie your sneakers, watching him as he shakes his head and makes a note on an already crowded legal pad. For a moment, you let your mind wander. The intellectual in you, the woman that loves historical fiction and collects vintage copies of the periodic table, can’t help but be insanely attracted to this man.

He will never know how utterly delicious he looks  in a v-neck t shirt, barefoot, and lost in some obscure text. Sam’s always a little sweaty and at this very moment, there’s a sheen layer of perspiration right at the hollow of his throat that’s nudging your mind in a thousand directions. It’s been way too long since you have had sex, but you don’t hold onto hope because Sam might as well be the president of the Shadow Hill Abstinence Society.

“I’ll bring you lunch,” he offers, without looking up.

“Sounds good, see you later.”

You hop on your bike and enjoy the ride to the greenhouse. It’s on the far side of town, a little over a mile, and you shiver in the cool morning air, your thin coat doing little for the brisk ride.

Green Thumbs, as the sign reads, is a fully functioning hot house as big as a barn. The heat hits you in a wave as you open the frosted glass door, enjoying the smell of the flowers and earth that overtakes your senses. You check on Sam’s plants first, the ones he asked you to cultivate for spell work. You fuss over the Mugwort and water the Lady’s Mantle before moving to your orchids that require repotting. At first, you didn’t know if you’d be able to grow anything, with Shadow Hill wiping the slate clean, but the greenhouse has proven to be space that allows change to stick. Your flowers and herbs grow tall and strong, perhaps better than they should. You lose track of time, surprised when you hear movement behind you.

“Hey you,” you see Sam and turn to greet him with a sweet genuine smile.

Sam gulps. It’s hot in here and you’re in a tank top that’s sticking to your sweaty, glistening body. There’s dirt smeared over your stomach and arms and a little just beside your nose. Your hair is a wild mess, barely contained by the failing pony tail. He’s been having a harder and harder time with his own self control when it comes to you, but this is the moment he knows that it’s only a matter of time before the dam breaks.

“Sandwiches,” he holds up a paper bag, looking at you with the familiar yet strange look he gets from time to time. You have no idea what goes in that head of his, but you’d like to find out.  You wash your hand off with the hose and join him on the small wooden bench for turkey sandwiches. He hands you a bottle of water as you catch his eyes wandering over your body.

You glare at him, “I know I’m a filthy mess.  I promise I’ll shower before I sit on the furniture, okay, dad?”

Sam just chuckles, looking at roses and biting into his food, “You’re so far off base you don’t even know it.”

**One Year, Eleven Months, Two Weeks**

A deafening crash of thunder rips you from your slumber, as your heart beats nearly out of your chest. The second boom makes you jump, as lightning illuminates your room. It’s so loud, that it sounds as if the heavens might crack open from the power.  Rain is falling heavy on the roof as you crawl out of bed and look out your second story window. The clouds look low enough that the far mountain peaks appear claustrophobic at the proximity. Between the flashes of lightning, there’s an inky darkness that sinks into the marrow of your bones. You glance at the clock next to your bed, but it’s black. Great, the power must be out. You don’t like storms. Most of the time, you’re an adult and you can power through it, but this is loud and bright and something feels uneasy and electric all around you. You make your way across the hall and rap at Sam’s door.

After a moment, you hear, “Y/N?” You turn the handle and creep inside as he sits up, shirtless and dazed.

“I um, I just…the storm woke me up,” you shift from one foot to the other, standing in his doorway.

“You want me to get up with you?” he mumbles, trying to shake himself from his sleep.

“No, I’m being a baby, go back to sleep. I’ll read or something.”

Sam throws back the sheets on the open side of his bed, and nods with his chin, “Get in here.”

You don’t hesitate, you crawl in beside him, and he pulls the cover up to your waist. You don’t know if he’s fully coherent or not, but he rolls into you, as if it’s no big deal. His body presses into your side, his face burying into your neck and his hand sliding across your stomach and coming to rest on your hip.

Shit.

You lay like that for a while, now more awake than ever before in your life. Everywhere he’s touching you feels excruciatingly sensitive, like you’re in overdrive. Sam’s breathing hot at your neck just under your jaw and instead of softening with sleep, it’s only getting faster and faster. A crack of thunder roars down from the night sky and you involuntarily jerk. Sam’s hand tightens around your hip, his body pressing into your side as he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

You feel the shift of his head as his lays a soft kiss to the skin of your neck, it’s not a grand gesture, but it’s supremely intimate as you lay here in his bed. He kisses you again, this time moving down a little further, just the tip of his tongue darting out to taste your skin.

Your breath catches in your throat as you tip your head away, giving him more access. His hand moves from your hip back over your stomach, resting his his palm just below your belly button.

“Can I touch you?” he murmurs at the shell of your ear. You exhale in a desperate, fractured moan.

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding.

Sam pulls at the hem of your nightgown and before you know what’s happening, it’s up and over your head, leaving you completely naked. He makes a guttural grunt of approval, pleased to see you’ve forgone undergarments. Still on his side, he leans over and cups one of your breasts with a calloused hand, taking your nipple into his mouth. You gasp, his wet tongue sliding over the hardened bud before tugging gently with his teeth.

His fingers play down your abdomen, barely grazing, as his touch sinks lower. You feel his fingers swipe over your sex, the tip of his fingers delicately stroking over your lips. When he feels that you’re wet, he pushes further, coating his fingers with your own slick. The pressure of his finger shallow inside you makes you quiver, your thighs falling apart.

Continuing to mouth your breast, his finger moves upward, out of your pussy to find your clit with expert efficiency. He rubs over the little bundle of nerves, eliciting a buck of your hips.

For what seems like a lifetime, he works your body just like this. His hand between your legs and nipple between his lips. His finger moves back and forth across your clit, rubbing and coaxing soft moans as you rock your hips up into this hand. Sam rolls his tongue over your nipple, then clenches down sending shocks that reverberate in your nether regions.

“I’m going to taste you,” he explains calmly, pressing a kiss between your breasts, moving downward placing his lips at the crown of your ribcage.

“Sam,” you puff, his words only adding to the anticipation, just a vague outline of what’s to come next, leaving him to fill in the details. The caress of his lips travel down your stomach, stopping for moment to trace the outline of your belly button with his tongue. As he moves lower, he readjusts his body, crawling between your legs, hooking his hand behind one of your knees and bending your legs, using his shoulders to hold your shaking thighs open for him.

There’s a scrape of his teeth over the mound of your sex and you feel his breath before anything else, hot and warm with his face to close to your apex. Then his fingers; Sam uses his his thumb and index finger to peel you open, revealing the throbbing little bundle of nerves.

There’s a tight swell of anticipation building in your stomach, but it’s nothing to prepare you for what comes next. With the tip of his tongue, slippery and warm, he scoops up and over your clit, once, twice, three times.

“Sam,” you groan, your back arching as he repeats the same, slow lick, just his tongue and fingers to hold you open. With his free hand, he reaches up, spreading his palm wide over your stomach, holding you down. Without warning, his whole mouth engulfs you, running his tongue flat and hard over the sweet spot that now controls every inch of your body.

Sam’s fantasized plenty of times about what you would taste like, but it’s different, better than he imagined. You’re salty and metallic in his mouth, making him only want more.  He has a plan for this first time, what and how he wants to pleasure you. Between the noises you’re making and the insistent thrust of your hips into his face, he knows he’s right on target.

He could do this for hours, incandescently happy with his head in a vice grip between your thighs, with a mouth full of tangy slick.

You don’t know long he’s down there, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes? All with his tongue making spine-tingling circles around your most sensitive parts. He knows what he’s doing too, changing his rhythm, adjusting the pressure of his tongue to keep you from coming, he doesn’t want that yet.

He knows you want more, he almost fucks you with his fingers, but he wants the first thing you feel pushing inside to be his cock. He wants you to come for the first time while he’s in you. He wants to watch you pulse and shake while he’s sunk deep. His dick is rock hard, grinding against the sheets as he thinks about it.

“Sam,” he scrapes his teeth over your clit when you call his name, groaning into your pussy. His tongue dips down, teasing between your fold before moving back up to his focus area. All you want is something, anything to fill you up, his tongue, his hand, his cock, the specifics don’t matter.

“You want me inside you?” he asks, looking up from your thighs.

“Please, God yes,” you groan at the sight of him, crawling back up over your body.

He settles his hips between your own, pushing his sweatpants down his thighs. His hand brushes stray hair out of your face and then he kisses you for the second time since you’ve known him. His lips meet yours, diving deep with a scoop of his tongue.

Lost in the bliss of his body weight and mouth, you feel his hand between you, then the head of cock rubbing over your clit and between your folds. There’s the sweet moment when he presses the tip into you for the first time, slowly sinking as you stretch around him. You moan into his mouth, his kisses deepening as he slides thick and stiff until he’s fully seated.

You feel impossibly full, it’s an incredible sensation that sends pleasure shooting out from where he’s sunk inside you. You wiggle your hips, canting up to his, desperate to take as much of him as you can.

Breathless and panting, Sam’s mouth parts from yours. He reaches up to grab the rung of the headboard for leverage and drops his mouth to the hollow of your throat, kissing sweat soaked skin as he moves, pulling out and thrusting back into you with a force that makes your eyes pop wide.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, reaching for the pillows, the other hand clinging to his arm as his veins bulge with tension.

“You feel so good,“ Sam groans as he’s trying his best to make this last. He wants you to remember this first time as intense and incredible, but he’s not sure he can last as long as he’d prefer. You’re so tight around him, like he’s balls deep in hot silk. You’re squirming under him, rubbing your pretty little body up into his like you’re life depends on it.

He looks down at you, your lip caught between your teeth, naked and straining at the sheets. Sam thinks you twisting under the weight of him is the the best thing he’s ever seen in his life. He fucks you hard and slow, pushing all the way in and grinding his hips in slow circles that turns you to into a quivering mess of wet, raw nerves.

His mouth is everywhere, at your mouth, neck, biting at the ball of your shoulder. He moves from those mind blowing grinds to a steady rhythm as the rooms fills with the rolling thunder and the wet, carnal slap of his body into yours. You’re both close, the pumping of his hips faster and harder than before.

“Can I come inside you?” he pants, a growing desperation in his voice.

“Oh God,” you sink your nails into his back, frantic to pull him deeper at the very thought. “Yes, Sam, don’t stop.”

He props himself up on his elbows, his hips snapping fast as your breasts bounce with every thrust. Your nipples are still hard and he can’t help but take one back into his mouth, sucking hard as his hand snakes between your bodies.

His thumb presses over your clit, flicking up and down as he slows his movements. He grinds slow, just like before and you tip over the edge. You come in a glorious crescendo of pulsing nerves and taut muscles, clinging to him like a life raft.

Sam feels it, your body throbbing around his cock as you chant his name. You’re so beautiful, head thrashing to the side, mouth open, lost in the pleasure.

Before your orgasm has completely ended, he’s moving again, quick hard thrusts that make your muscles clench. Sam comes with your name on his tongue, filling you with everything he has, rocking slowly as he empties, twitching inside you. His forehead falls to the crook of your neck as his movements slow to a snail’s pace. You rub  his back, hands trailing up and down until he’s totally still.

Kissing you, he pulls out then flops onto his back and you lay side by side, silent in the dark as the rain continues to fall in sheets outside the window.

Sam brings your hand up to his mouth, kissing softly. “I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

“Me too,” you confess. This has wide ranging implications, none of which you want to think about right now. Your sated with Sam and pleasure and that’s where you want to stay for the rest of the night. You feel him shift onto his side, his hand over your stomach again, dipping between your legs to feel the wet of your thighs, the product of his hard work and your arousal. “I need to get you into a shower.”

“The power was out…” You glance to his bedside clock which is lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Looks like it came back on,” he sits up.

“Not yet, I want to lie here a little while longer,” when you protest, he moves back to you, pulling you into the crook of his arm where you’re both sweaty and overheated. “I just wanna be like this, just for a few minutes.”

“Whatever you want,” he concedes, not five minutes later he’s snoring gently.

But you don’t fall back to sleep. You lie in the dark, as the storm rages outside. You think about Sam and Shadow Hill and wonder if all this will actually last.


	4. Year Three

**Two Years, Three Weeks**

Sex changes things.

You’ve forgotten what it feels like to bask in the glow of a new relationship. The two of you find yourselves in the golden hour when everything is new and exciting, all the previous mundane events of the day seem suddenly thrilling. Now that Sam feels free to touch you, he does so without abandon and his hands seems more present than they did before, squeezing your shoulders at the table before taking a seat across from you, grinning as he nudges your bare feet with his own under the table. It’s glorious, the way one night changed everything about the way you interact. You feel a tingle when he walks into the room, blushing when he catches you looking at him.

For a while everything else is forgotten, research and books and plants are shoved to the back of your brain because you can’t think about anything but Sam and the feeling is mutual. You fuck anywhere and everywhere you can because why the hell not? It’s one of the few perks of being Shadow Hill’s only two residents. This world is yours and yours alone so Sam eats you out as you spread over the counter in the hardware store and you suck on his cock in the Beatrice Thurman Memorial Rose Garden.

He can’t get enough of you, he loves the way you crawl into his lap mid day, setting his books aside as you paw at the zipper of his jeans. He watches you shimmy your panties down your legs, so eager to have him inside you that it feels like dream. He gets so hard watching you ride him, moving slowly up and down on his cock, squeezing your own nipples between your fingers and moaning his name. There’s nothing better than making love in the middle of the day when your face isn’t hidden in the dark of nighttime bedroom and he gets to watch you come, shaking with your mouth twisted in pleasure as you pulse around him.

The two of you get lost in each other and for better or worse, nothing else matters.

**Two Years, Four Months**

Sam lays with his eyes closed, sprawled out on a blanket spilling out over the soft, green lawn of the library. One hand’s thoughtfully tucked under his head, the other resting with fingers spread across his chest. From the top of the hill, there’s a breathtaking view of the town, but right now he’s not concerned with sweeping scenery, but he’s enjoying a moment of levity where his mind drifts away from his normal thoughts and somewhere much more freeing. He lets himself imagine this could last, this content, even feeling that seems to fit him surprisingly well.

You move beside him, the familiar sound of a turning book page as the sun slips from behind a cloud, warmth growing over his entire body. Your arm is touching the bend of his elbow and the small contact is immensely comforting as a constant reminder that you’re here, you’re his, and he’s not alone.

Cracking open one eye, he watches you twirl the stem of a sunflower while intensely focused on a worn copy ‘Botany for Gardeners’ as if you haven’t already read it ten times over.

The two of you walk hand in hand from the house, taking your sweet time making the long trek to your favorite spot just outside the library, the one you used to hate.  Sam meanders with a bag full of blankets, wine and sandwiches slung over his shoulder, his other hand holding yours, fingers entwined, palm to palm.

You both see the summer flowers in full bloom. You see the popping colors as a life beginning, so robust to come back season after season. Sam see them as beautiful,but transitory, soon to wither and die as the season changes. As the sky turns blue and the sun shines down, you turn your face to the warmth, a happy smile glowing upward like a plant reaching for the sun. Sam comments that he should have put on sunscreen. He used to be the eternal optimist, but he’s not sure when he relinquished his title.

“You’ve got to learn to relax Sam, enjoy a moment every now and then without worrying about what could be,” you say quietly.

So here he is, belly up on the grass with his legs spread wide as he shuts his eyes again. For the first time, possibly in his life, Sam allows himself to be happy; for the happiness to sink right into his bones. He wants this feeling to last, to recall this moment when he’s old and gray. He tries to savor this, picturing your hand clasped around the flower and smiling at him, soft and easy. Sam’s body and mind relax in a way so foreign that, in this moment there are no expectations, no books or spells or research. No desperation to get out of this place.

The way he feels is something he never thought he’d find. Even with Jess, when things were good in the world and his old life was always looming, there was always a threat of it spilling  at any moment and shattering the fragile world he created…but not now. At this moment, in this place, there is only sunshine and happiness and you. I don’t want to wait any longer, he thinks.

“I love you,” Sam murmurs, surprising himself.  He opens his eyes, watching as you close your book and turn to him. For a moment, he can’t read your expression, but like clockwork, a wash a joy spreads across your face as your eyes dart to his. It could be the sun, but he thinks the pink flush in your cheeks is new.

You prop yourself up on an arm so that you’re hovering above him. He reaches up and tucks a piece of  rogue hair behind your ear as you gaze over him. Sam could live for moments like this, the way you say so much with just your eyes.

“You make so happy,” you whisper as if it’s a secret only meant for him. “I love you, too.”

**Two Years, Six months, One Week**

Sam needs control.

It starts with his fitness routine. As far as you know,he’s always maintained a healthy lifestyle. Eating well and working out are part of your daily lives, but over the last six months, he’s really become intensely regimented in a new routine.

“What else are we going to do?” he shrugs emerging from the basement, hair soaked in sweat.

Every morning like clockwork, he’s in that basement lifting weights, followed by push ups, pull ups, sit ups and any variation of ‘ups’ you can think of. Some days it’s an hour, other days more and that’s all before he rolls you out of bed for a run.

He says he likes it when you join him, but you’re not entirely convinced he would notice if you fell behind. Sam’s in a race with himself, everyday, pushing like he’s training for a marathon.

You’re not complaining, he’s becoming visibly more muscular as the days turn into months. His shoulders a little wider, his back flexing in a not-unpleasant way when you’re in the shower. His insistence on daily jogs has benefited you as well, you’ve dropped a couple dress sizes and your butt is looking pretty damn good, if you do say so yourself.

It’s not just the exercise, your weekly pasta consumption drops dramatically because he’s focused on a balance diet, as he would say, “It’s all about fueling our bodies.”

It dawns on you one day as you watch him doing squats in the backyard from your bedroom window, that this is all about control; or lack thereof.

You think back on all the stories he’s told you, amazing tales of heroism mixed with family drama that all involve Sam having to put his own wants and needs aside. Things happen to Sam, but rarely has he had the privilege of being the master of his own destiny, least of all in Shadow Hill. This place must be such a contradiction for him, a world where he can do anything he wants, except leave.

**Two Years, Seven Months**

Before you met Sam, ‘Hell’ was a fierce word, but not much more than that. A word to threaten children if they were naughty, a word to send shivers down a spine. The fiery demons whose barbed tails coiled and snapped, their whips sharp, their horns like mighty rocks thrusting from their heads, wings reaching far and wide to swallow the man that dare stand before them.

As a child, your mother spun an elaborate tale. Hell was not for ordinary sins. It wasn’t for the parents who lost their tempers in frustration while struggling under the stresses of life. It was not for the mentally ill or those too damaged to know right from wrong. Hell was reserved for those who knew their actions were wrong and acted on them regardless, enjoying the anguish of others and taking what was not rightfully theirs. It was a shock for the elite bankers and weekly church goers of the world to be lined up with the psychopaths, though their victims were many times more numerous than the worst of the serial killers. Each one was lead to a rock and told to sit before the floor around them vanished entirely, as did the light, the air and sound. The only thing left was the rock, themselves and a journal with a pen. They were to write about their lives, and as they did so, the pain they had knowingly inflicted would travel up the pen and into their their bodies. Most dropped their pen only for another to appear. There was only one way out of hell…

When you were little, this all seemed plausible to you. Even when you grew up and doubted the very existence of such a laughable idea, her words always lingered: There was only one way out of hell…

Sitting across from Sam as the sun sets behind the trees, you wish her version was the real one. You’re tucked into a window booth at the front of Anthony’s Italian Cafe, sipping whiskey and listening as Sam confess things that happen  _down there_ , things that make you want to crawl out of your own skin. You keep your poker face, not wanting him to know that it phases you. Sam needs to know you won’t see him as different now that he’s told you and you’re determined to be the person he needs, regardless of the nausea stirring in your gut.

“That wasn’t even the worst part,” Sam looks out the window, avoiding your stare. He swirls his glass and takes a stiff sip.

“How could it possibly get worse than that?” you ask, shaking your head in disbelief.

“When I got out of the pit…it’s a relief that I can’t put into words. I broke, I gave up and then suddenly I was given another chance.” He squints, examining his knuckles, then to you, “I didn’t know what was real anymore. For a long time, I wasn’t sure if I really escaped or I was trapped there and it was all an illusion, like if I would wake up at any moment and the pain and despair would be right there again. I couldn't’ enjoy anything because it was this looming threat, always there. That fear is what almost killed me; I don’t ever want to let it control me like that again.”

You slide a half melted cube of ice from your glass, crunching it as you continue. “It’s not always bad. Fear is an important part of being human, Sam, it’s the precursor to bravery. We need it, it wakes us up to what needs to be done. I think keeping it inside is what gives it power.”

“I think you’re right,” he offers a tight smile and reaches across the table, squeezing your wrist with his long fingers.

“For the longest time, I was terrified of drowning, I hated going to the beach or to my cousin’s pool parties. When I was fifteen, maybe sixteen, my dad said it was time to conquer my fears. So, he made me take swimming lessons. It was a simple a fix to something that controlled me for so long. He was right, too because once I knew I could swim, I could float,I wasn’t scared of the water anyone. Who knows, maybe it was the lessons or maybe I just grew up and figured out there were a lot of other, more significant things to be worried about.” you smile to yourself thinking of your father, the way he smelled when he rocked you to sleep as a kid. When you look up, Sam’s just watching you thoughtfully, “So Sam, tell me, what is your biggest fear?”

He blinks, chuckling to himself before resting his forearms on the table in front of him, as if he’s leaning in to tell you secret. He looks from his glass to you, scrunching his nose.“That I’ll never seen Dean again,” he pauses, his lip curling up over his teeth, “or that one day I’m gonna wake up you’ll be gone and I’ll be alone. I ah….I’m petrified of both.”

“You’re gonna see your brother again and I’m not going anywhere,” you say firmly, as if your intent can make it so.

“What about you?” he sits back against the booth, “Come on, spill it. I told you mine.”

“My fear,” you hesitate, rocking on your hips. You’ve never said it out loud before. “I’m afraid that there’s nothing after this, no after life; that one day, I’ll close my eyes and everything will go dark…and that’s all she wrote. No memories of you, no pearly gates, just black nothingness.”  

“Well,” Sam clinks the bottle against his glass as he pours himself a refill, “I can tell you with absolute certainty that there is something. I don’t what exactly, but it’s something.”

You push out your bottom lip, considering his confirmation, “I just wish I could make myself believe that.”

**Two Years, Seven Months, Two Weeks**

“I can’t find my sneakers, the grey ones,” Sam leans over and kisses your cheek from behind, grabbing an orange from the bowl on the counter as you turn to face him.

“They smelled like a locker room, I washed them and put them out on the patio to dry,” you gesture out the sliding glass door to just off the dining area where Sam’s shoes are neatly lined up and visible through the glass.

“You’re the best,” Sam comments as he retrieves them and sits down at the table to put them on. “Out of all the women in this town, I’m lucky I ended up with you.”

He’s making a joke, but it doesn’t sit right with you from the instant the words leave his mouth. Forcing a smile, you go back to peeling apples, “Two runs in one day, someone’s ambitious.  Are they even dry?” you point to his Nike’s with the peeler.

“They’re fine, I just have a lot of energy. I figured I might as well put it to good use.”

Your gut reaction is to make a sly comment about saving that energy for the bedroom, but you swallow that urge. “Be careful.”

“I promise,” Sam leans in for another kiss, this one at your temple as he casually swats you on the butt. “I’ll be an hour, tops.”

His joke replays in your head as you knead dough for the pie crust: “Out of all the women in this town, I’m lucky I ended up with you.” Sam didn’t mean anything when he said it, your logical mind knows that, but the idea plants itself somewhere deep in your brain and lies dormant, waiting to pop up again.

Doubt is a lot like hope in that it can build on itself; all it takes is for a single thought to worm it’s way inside and find a place to grow. You think of it as a weed, an unwanted growth that you find yourself incapable of pruning. Instead of holding it at bay, you let it take over, overshadowing the good and strangling it until the garden of your mind is completely consumed. The little sliver of doubt jets out at the most inopportune times, on a mission to poison each interaction just a little more. It bothers you for months, making you over analyze every conversation until one night you can’t hold it in anymore.

Two Years, Ten Months

You’ve been reading the same paragraph for thirty minutes, the words becoming an unrecognizable jumble. It’s mid-day on a Saturday (you’re pretty sure at least) and this is your routine.  Sam’s sitting beside you nose deep in a copy of IQ84.

“Sam,” you gently close your book, wedging it between the cushion and the arm of the couch.

“Yeah,” he responds without looking up.

“Can I ask you something?” You try to cover up the bend in your voice, but he knows. Sam’s eyes flicker from the pages to you.

“Or course, you can ask me anything,” he responds simply.

“Well,” you sit up a bit straighter, “I was just thinking, hypothetically, if we had met some other time and place, in the outside world, do you think we’d be together? And don’t just say yes, I want you to think about it.”

Sam raises his eyebrows, clearing his throat and setting the novel on the coffee table. He now understands, it’s going to be that kind of conversation.

“Why are you asking me this?” He leans back, his hand coming to rest on the back of the couch as if he’s settling in for the long haul.

“Because I just,” you stumble, “I’ve been thinking about it.”

Sam is quiet, trying to carefully select his next words because he’s not stupid. He’s well aware that this is a delicate moment. When he finally does speak, your heart drops. “No, I don’t think we’d be together.”

You’re unable to contain your expression, “What do you umm-”

“I’m not done, I’ve thought about this, too so you have to let me explain.” Sam places his hand on your knee reassuringly. “I don’t think, after all the shit I’ve been through, that I would have even given us the chance to work. I would like you, I knew I liked you immediately. Yeah, maybe we would have hooked up, if I was lucky, but in my life before this, I wouldn’t have had the time or the opportunity to fall in love.”

“So, you fell in with love me because we’re stuck here together, we’ve got all the time in the world, and I’m the only option?” you snip, your hackles raised as displeasure draws your lips into a pucker. You’re setting him. Stop it.

“That’s not what I said,” Sam bawks, now painfully aware that he’s stumbled into a minefield.

“I’m just clarifying. Before Shadow Hill, I wouldn’t have been an option, but since we might be the last two people on the fucking planet, you decided to give it the good old college try?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Sam backtracks, a hint of anger rising. “But, now that you mention it, I do think it’s a pretty natural impulse to want to be together, especially when we’re all there is.”

He makes the regretful mistake of giving into the part of him that wants to hurt you with logic. He’s not sure where this is coming from, but a large part of him resents your implications because he’s tried his best to open with you, probably more so that he’s ever been with anyone else, ever.

“So, if instead of me there was some other woman, let’s say….Amelia, and you were trapped here with her, you’d play house with her, too?” It’s not a fair question, the basic premise coupled with the fact that you brought up Amelia, but you say the words regardless.

“That is a totally ridiculous scenario,” Sam quips, running his hand over his face in frustration.

“Why? We ended up here. Answer my question, Sam.”

“In a version of reality where I never met you and I end up stranded with Amelia for three years, then yes. We would probably be together.” Sam ticks his jaw, wishing he could take back his words. The look on your face is not one he’s seen before, the corners of your mouth falling as a hollow stare blinks back at him.

“Well,” you look at the palms of your hands, teeth biting at your bottom lip.

“Y/N, I didn’t-”

“It’s okay Sam, I asked,” you interrupt, avoiding eye contact as you stand.

“Baby, sit back down,” he tries to grab your arm, but you slink out of reach.

“It’s fine. I presented you with a ludicrous situation and you answered me honestly. We’re fine…I’m gonna go for a walk before I say or ask anything else…but for the record I never want to be your choice because I’m all there is.”

Sam lets you walk away, closing his eyes as the front door  closes with a click. “Fuck,” he howls, picking up his book and throwing it across the room where it hits the wall and flutters to the ground.

**Two Years, Ten Months, One Week**

It’s strange and frightening how you can go from someone being a complete stranger, to being so utterly entwined with them that you wonder how it ever was that you were able to live without them, because you sure as hell couldn’t imagine being without Sam now.

The following week is difficult for you both. You find your confidence shaken and incapable of repairing it. Sam tiptoes around like you’re made of glass and it only serves to exacerbate the distance growing between you. You lay awake at night pretending to sleep, eat your meals in virtual silence, and wonder if this is exactly why you shouldn’t have given into your attraction in the first place.

Coming back from an afternoon at the hot house, you proceed directly to the shower, letting warm water wash away your worries, if only for a moment. Stepping out onto the rug and reaching for a towel, you see a note taped to your foggy mirror, your name in  Sam’s distinct handwriting.

Naked and wet, you forgo the towel, peel the piece of paper off ,and read the note written on the inside.

> _‘Meet me in the front of the movie theater at eight._
> 
> _-Sam’_

It’s a simple request and you suppose that you could simply not go, but in reality, you’re tired of letting this feeling of inadequacy control your life. Sam said something that hurt you, but if you’re honest with yourself, you know that he’s not the only one who’s used painful words. You’re not even really sure if you buy into this pet theory about Sam and the desperation of the human imperative, but you don’t care anymore.

You don’t want to be alone in this place. You don’t want to be without him, no matter what the circumstances. And you definitely don’t want to give into whatever self-sabotage your subconscious has planned.

–

You stand nervously under the overhang on the sidewalk in front of the cinema, waiting for a sign from Sam.  It’s not exactly raining, but more of a light drizzle falls as a light breeze picks at the hem of your floral dress and dances around your knees.

“You look beautiful,” Sam’s voice startles you, as you turn to find him standing before you in a suit, fingers smoothing his tie.

“I’m afraid I might be overdressed, but… you look handsome” you smile, gesturing toward him, “Sam I just wanna say that-”

“Stop, we can talk in a minute,” he steps forward, taking you by the hand and pulling you down the sidewalk into the adjacent building. He leads you inside and the door slams shut behind you and it’s pitch black. You walk carefully until he stops you with hands on your hips.

“Stay right here,” he whispers.

“What are we doing?” you question, stranded in the dark until Sam flips a switch. Lights that look like small stars illuminate the ceiling, giving the effect of being outside under the nighttime heavens. You realize you’re standing in the middle of the Shadow Hill Roller Rink, the hardwood floor beneath you bringing back childhood memories of painfully falling on your ass during many a skating party. You grin watching Sam jog from the lights to a small booth where he’s fiddling with something. “I hope we’re not skating, because I’ve never been good on four wheels and in this dress…”

“Not tonight,” he grins, glancing up and quickly then back to whatever he’s doing. There’s a moment of static over the loudspeaker and then the first strains of Ella Fitzgerald singing [‘Moonlight Serenade](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DANCIw4oi-mo&t=YzM0MzVhMzNhNjMwNzUzMTZjZmRmZWJjYTY1Mjg3YzZiYjhjNGZkYyx0a0txVTlVSA%3D%3D&b=t%3A06fOzKTQe_d5wy2Pu7Yw_Q&p=http%3A%2F%2Fcleverdame.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F160681652240%2Feast-of-nowhere-year-three-master-post-here-sam&m=1)’ fill the room. Sam saunters toward you, pleased with the look on your face.He takes you into his arms and you both begin to sway slowly.

“I had a whole thing planned, dinner in the park under the stars, but it’s raining so this will have to do.”

“This is my favorite song,” you sigh, resting your head on his shoulder as you dance slowly.

“I know,” he rests his chin on the top of your head.

You did tell him, but it takes you a moment to recall exactly when. You’d been here maybe three months and you were telling him about Jack. You’d been a little drunk and told him about how thoughtful Jack was and how he always made these grand romantic gestures that were amazing, but not really what you wanted. Sam had asked you then what is was you were hoping for. You sipped your beer and told him all you ever really wanted was to dance under the stars to Ella Fitzgerald…to this song.

That was almost three years ago.

You lift your head and meet Sam’s gaze, staring down at you with a soft smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. There are tears suddenly pooling at the corners of your eyes as your heart swells in your chest, “You remembered.”

“How could I forget,” he continues to rock gently side to side as he tucks hair behind your ear, “I remember everything you’ve ever said to me.”

“Sam-” you start, a fat tear rolling down your cheek.

He places a finger at your lips, “I’ve been in love with you since before we laid in the middle of main street and watched the stars.”

You feel dizzy, drunk on him in this perfect moment where Sam seems like the whole world. “I love you, too.” You’re not sure you actually said words until he smiles, dipping his head to kiss you softly, the press of his lips warm and fleeting as he pulls back.

“It’s not just this place, I’d love you anywhere, my heart would know. You’ll always be my first choice, there’s no one else.” He spins you around, his movements slowing, but not stopping as he cups your face with a hand, his other arm around your waist holding you close. “I’m going to spend in the rest of my life with you, whether it’s here or back in the real world, it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to wonder, because I already know how this ends. It ends with us together.”

“Sam, I…” there’s a million things you want to say, but in this moment, you can’t form coherent thoughts as another tear slides down you face, wiped away by his thumb as he cradles your jaw. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m not done, I might make you cry even more. I don’t want to wait any longer to start living.” He grins, a hint of nervous excitement pounding in his chest as he reaches down fishes in his pocket. He’s still holding you against him as he brings his hand between the two of you, a small diamond ring between his fingers. “All I want is to grow old with you.”

“Are you asking me to marry you?” you have to clarify because you brain is buzzing, unable to fully process.

“Yes,” he hums quietly, dropping his forehead to yours, closing his eyes as if he can’t stand to wait for the answer.

“It ends with us together,” you repeat his words back to him, letting the feeling sink in. “You and me no matter what, huh?”

“Always,” your heart feels like it might explode as he slips the ring on your finger. Sam takes your hand, kissing your palm then your lips, just as soft as before, lingering as you slide your fingers through his hair.

The song on the speakers begins to play again as you place your head on his chest as you sway to the music, “How does this work?”

“It works however we want it to,” you feel him shrug, his cheek pressed into your temple, “we make our own rules now.”

**Three Years**

It seems like it’s always raining.

The storm has been brewing on the cold horizon, promising nothing but winds to level even the mightiest of trees to the soil. The noon darkness and damp-smelling air showed up hours before the actual storm. You don’t hate the thunderstorms as much as you used to, now it just seems like a good excuse to curl up in bed.

“What are you reading?” Sam intrudes, the bed dipping next to you.  

“It’s Agatha Christie, Murder at the Vicarage.”

“Is it good?” He plucks the book from your hands and bends the page before setting it on the nightstand.

“Hey, I was right at a good part!” You protest weakly, unable to hide a grin as he gets on his hand and knees on either side of you legs.

“I have something very important to discuss with you,” he slides his arms between you and the mattress, pulling you under his body with a quick flex of his arms.

“Oh yeah?” You reach up, tucking hair behind his ear as he hovers above you. Sam gazes down, eyes full of affection as he turns his head to the palm of your hand, your fingers playing at the line of his jaw. “This conversation requires you to be on top of me?”

“Absolutely,” he chuckles, settling his hips between your thighs. “You have a big decision to make…” his voice trails off as he runs his hands up the outside of your legs, starting at your knees until he find his way under your silk nightgown. You lift your butt off the bed, just enough to let him bunch the nightie up around you waist, leaving your gray lace panties exposed.

“A decision you say, do I get to know my choices?” Your breath hastens as he moves down your body, pressing a kiss at the edge of your panties, his lips half touching skin.

Sam looks at you, his eyes simmering behind half closed lids, “Maybe, it’s a hard choice. You’ll have to really think about it.” He hooks a finger in either side of your underwear and slides them down your legs, tossing them to the floor.

“I’m a smart girl, I can handle it,” you shimmy as he moves back up your body. He pauses for a moment to pull his own shirt over his head before removing your nightgown, where it joins the pile of clothes at the side of the bed. “And now I’m naked, I always think better when I’m naked.”

“You’ve always been a problem solver,” he purrs as your legs fall apart, he’s still wearing sweatpants and you can feel his erection grinding through the material. Sam rests his weight over you, propping his elbows on either side of your head, while your hard nipples press up into his warm, welcome chest. “You ready for your options?”

“I’ve been training for this,” your comment elicits a full laugh, his shoulders shaking.

“Do you want me to fuck you, or eat you out, first?” He nips at your jaw, his words tugging at the all the right corners of your mind. You feel the excitement shoot downward, coiling between your legs.

“While the latter is tempting, I think I want you to fuck me first,” his tongue darts out licking at the hollow of your throat, his hips rolling into you as his covered cock rubs over your naked sex.

“How do you want me to fuck you? Like this or maybe from behind?” his mouth trails up the other side of your neck, sucking your earlobe into his mouth.

You groan, wiggling under him, “I wanna be on top, I want to ride your cock.”

Sam pulls back, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips as he looking playfully over your face. “Tsk Tsk, it wasn’t a choice, but I’m  flexible, so I’ll accept a write in answer.”

He kisses you, soft and slow his tongue pushing past your lips and twirling shallow inside your mouth. Tipping your head to the side, you moan, widening your jaw giving him full access. You slide a hand up his back cupping over his shoulders, pulling him down into you. Wedging his hands under you, he cups your ass, grinding over your now wet center.

His lips don’t leave yours as his fingers find your breasts, rolling a hardened nipple before pinching with just the right amount of pressure that makes you buck under him.

You exhale, arching your neck as his mouth travels south until you feel his mouth close around your nipple, sucking hard again and again, just the way you like it. He’s had enough practice at this point, he knows how to touch you in subtle ways that elicit unconscious reactions.

His mouth pops off one breast and moves to the other, finding the pert bud and paying it the same attention.

That’s when you hear it, a soft sound that’s out of place. It registers somewhere in the back of your mind but you’re distracted as his large hard-on moves between your bodies, then brushes over your clit.

“Sam,” you hiss his name, grabbing his hair in small fist. He strokes between your lips, finding you wet and eager as his pushes two fingers inside, his thumb pressing your sweet little bundle of nerves.

You hear it again, a shuffle and this time it plucks your mind from the erotic haze.

“Sam,” you whisper his name again, only this time it’s laced with apprehension. He feels your body go unnaturally stiff and his mouth releases your nipple with a wet pop as his finger stills where it’s been moving in little strokes over your clit.

“What’s wrong, did I hurt you?” he pants, concerned as he shifts his weight off of you and onto his arms.

“Listen,” you murmur, placing a finger to his lips.

He scrunches his forehead quizzically and pauses, this time you both hear it, a rustle coming from the hallway.

Now it’s time for his body to fall rigid, as he turns his head toward the doorway. “Don’t move,” he mouths silently.

There’s a sound like one of the other bedroom doors opening and then footsteps. Footsteps clear as day clicking across the hardwood floor. You’re eyes go wide with fear, Sam rolls off you and the bed in a heartbeat. The footfall picks up as whoever it is runs down the hallway, then begins descending the stairs to the first floor.

“Stay here,” Sam booms, sliding open the drawer of the nightstand and retrieving a handgun. He’s out of the room in a split second and you’re only a moment behind, stopping to pick his discarded shirt up and struggle to pull it over your head as you follow.

He stops momentarily at the bottom of the stairs where you catch up to him, placing a hand on his back as you peek around his body. The front door is wide open, sheets of heavy rain cascading down and now blowing into your living room.

“I told you to stay upstairs,” he hisses.

“I didn’t listen,” you shake your head adamantly.

He moves forward and so do you, jogging out of the house into the warm summer rain. The shirt you’re wearing is soaked through in seconds, clinging to the curves of your body. Sam jogs out to the middle of the street, standing shirtless in sweatpants.

“Come here,” Sam gestures, raising his arm and pulling you to his chest. His wet hair flops into his eyes and he lowers the gun, looking in every direction. “There was someone in the house, I saw-”

Your world goes black.

::

You wake up lying side by side on a neatly made bed. Sam first, confused and shaking, wearing nothing but a pair of rain soaked track pants. He panics for a moment, but all he needs to do is turn his head to find you.

“Hey Y/N,” he shakes your arm. He’s trying to reason why you’re naked except for his shirt that’s tangled around your torso leaving your lower half completely exposed with legs fallen open. “Baby, come on, wake up.”

You blink in the dark as your eyes adjust. The first sensations are cold and damp as Sam’s familiar hand grips the ball of your shoulder.

“What happened?” you rub your eyes, lifting the wet material away from you skin.

“I don’t know,” he looks just as confused as you are, “my head is throbbing.”

“Mine, too,” you press a hand at your temple, “Did we get drunk?”

“Maybe…I don’t think so. I can’t remember.” He runs a hand through his hair looking from side to side as if the answer might be hidden in the room.

Propping yourself up you gaze down at your own bare stomach, and below that your neatly trimmed strip of pubic hair. “Well, I don’t have any panties on, so maybe we got drunk and decided to have sex…in the spare bedroom.”

Sam looks bewildered, “Yeah, this isn’t even our room, huh….I have no idea.”

“Sam,” you start but don’t really have the words to finish. None of this feels right. Something happened, something neither of you have any recollection of, “why are we wet?”

He just shakes his head, unable to even begin to find answers with his head pounding. His eyes narrow with concern as you shiver. “Let’s get dressed.”

–

Ten minutes later you’re sitting in the kitchen as Sam pours you cup of coffee. The clock on the stove is blinking back numbers that say it’s nearing 5 am.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he questions, handing you two aspirin.

“We were eating lunch, then we took a walk downtown,” you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to remember. There’s a frenzy building in your chest making it harder and harder to breathe. “Why can’t I remember? That’s fifteen hours completely unaccounted for.”

“Whatever it was, it happened to both of us.” His words are no comfort as you feel a full panic attack twitching to life. Your heart is beating fast, too fast. You try taking deeper breaths, but it feels like you can’t get enough air in your lungs. “

“I can’t breathe,” you sputter, your vision starting to blur at the edges.

“Hey, hey, hey. You’re okay, I’m right here,” Sam’s on his knees in front of you, a hand on each of your arms, “we’re gonna figure it out. I promise.”


	5. Year Four

**Three Years, Three Weeks**

You twist in sweat soaked sheets, your body writhing next to Sam as a dream flickers to life behind your closed eyes.

_The bunsen burner is a burnished silver and far larger than any you’ve ever seen before, the flames a brilliant blue and strong as they lick upward. You reach over to turn the base, to feed it with oxygen. At once, the fire becomes golden and takes the shape of a flower head. You watch the many petals became more distinct, folding outward, radiating light and warmth. It’s the most beautiful flower you’ve ever seen, more fleeting than any other, yet seemingly eternal._

_This looks exactly like your college biology lab, right down to the lopsided stool that rocked when you sat on it. Despite the similarities, you know this is a different place, the anxiety rising as the edges of your vision ebb and flow._

_Then you’re outside, standing in the street in front of the house that you and Sam share. It’s as if God has adjusted the colours of the world in the night, like it’s as easy as twisting one of those old plastic dials on a television set. Everything is brighter than it should be; the trees aren’t just green but radiant virescent hues that burn themselves into your sleepy retinas. The houses are as vibrant as if they’ve been repainted by moonlight and now stand vivid in the golden rays that fall unfettered though the clear sky. The road that should be black asphalt is a sleek river of gray with perfect paint lines and the street-lamps are blue. But, they’ve never been blue, not ever. Everything is so right it’s wrong - really wrong. The front yards that had been dishevelled with the decay of late winter just yesterday were a riot of colourful blooms. You turn back to look at the house, the curtain twitches. Someone’s inside and you inherently know it’s not Sam. You hurry to the front door only to find that it is locked. You beat on the hard wood of the door, calling for Sam as a face appears at the window…your face…but with darker eyes and a smile that makes you want to cry._

_“Go away,” dark you hisses through the glass, “we don’t need you anymore.”_

_“He’ll know,” you yell back, “Sam will know that you’re not the real me.”_

_“What makes you so sure?” dark you smirks, “he hasn’t been able to tell so far.”_

 

**Three Years, Four Months**

“I’ll go first,” you smile and inch closer until your knees are touching his. You’re both cross-legged on a tattered flannel blanket in the middle of a sun-soaked clearing, surrounded by an ocean of white dandelions. It’s past mid-day, but it is still warm enough to put a flush in Sam’s cheeks. He smiles bashfully, his teeth catching his bottom lip. Leaning toward him you whisper, “Are you nervous?”

“Yes,” he admits rubbing a hand at nape of his neck, “but the good kind.”

“Me too,” you grab his hand with two of yours and pulling it toward, speaking as you trace the veins of his palm with your thumb. “You probably don’t even remember…”

“Try me,” he urges, reaching out to grab a lock of your hair. He twists it around his finger, his eyes never leaving yours.

“We’d been here a year maybe and we were running out on Miller’s trail. You veered off at full speed, on that skinny dirt footpath, the one right past that huge down pine and all the roots?” Sam nods affirmatively. “I could barely keep up with you and you just kept looking back at me with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen and yelling at me:  _‘Come on Y/N, I know you’ve got it in you.’_ ”

“I’ve never seen you run that fast,” Sam chuckles, watching as you trace your index finger up his wrist.

“Shhh, it’s my turn to talk,” Sam mouths a quick ‘ _sorry_ ’ and you continue.

“I chased you all the way to that pond at the north end of the woods and I lost you toward the end. When I rounded that last corner, you were just standing there waiting for me by the water’s edge. I ran up to you, I was going to push you in but instead, you picked me up and hugged me like it was most natural thing in the world. In that moment, I knew how I felt about you. I don’t know if it was the feeling of you holding me or how happy you seemed to be, but it was the trigger. I wanted a thousand more of those moments. Nothing was the same after that.”

“I remember that day,” Sam expounds, “I even remember what I said to you.”

“No way,” you scoff.

“I told you that no one ever made me want to push that hard, that I move faster when you’re chasing me.”

“I’m still not sure how I feel about that,” chuckling you drop your gaze, but only for a moment because Sam’s isn’t done.

“That’s not the only thing I remember. Your hair smelled like that eucalyptus shampoo you used to use and the hair tie you were using broke half-way through the run, so it was down and wild from the wind on the trail.” Sam breathes looking at you as if he’s still in a moment.

“Well,” you blush, constantly amazed by the details he’s able to recall. Reaching to the blanket you pick up a thin, silver ring and slip it onto his finger. “That was the moment I knew I loved you.”

He holds his hand up to the light, thumbing at the ring at the base of his finger. Then closes his eyes momentarily, breathing once, in and out, before looking back at you. He takes both your hands in his, turning them palm up just as you did with him. His line of sight shifts away from yours to where his thumbs are pressing into your wrists. “It’s not just one moment for me…and there are some things I haven’t said, things that I need to tell you.”

“Okay,” you’re not sure where this is headed.

“I dreamt about you, a long time before I met you. I used to have this recurring dream when I was in college. It was before I met Jess. I used to dream about a woman, I could never remember the details, just feelings. She made me feel like this; safe and happy. She helped me understand that life could be more than blood and sacrifice. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen…she was you. When I first saw you I tried to convince myself that it was just a coincidence, that you were just similar. But I don’t think that’s it, I think I saw my future and it was you.”

Sam’s told you about premonitions and latent powers, so this doesn’t come as complete surprise. You want to speak, due to the whole series of alternating questions and comments racing through your brain, but you remain silent. This is his turn.

“Am I making you reconsider?” Sam’s only half joking, you both know it. You shake your head no and he squeezes your forearms in response. “Do you remember when we were still living at the motel, that night when we drank half the lobby bar? You were mixing Mojitos, which for the record were awful, and I can’t even remember exactly what we were talking about but it was something about Dean and family. You didn’t even look up from what you were doing and you said:  _‘Well you’re my family now and you will be, even when we get out of here, so you’re going to have to explain that to Dean because I’m not giving you back.’_ ”

You remember that moment well, you’d been a little drunk and had spoken without thinking. Sure, you meant the words, but at the time, it felt like too vulnerable of  a confession.

“I’d told you things about my life that must have sounded crazy and terrifying, but none of it phased you. You saw through all of it and somehow found me. Not Sam the hunter, or the son of John Winchester or the guy who almost ended the world. Under all of that, you found me. I don’t think anyone’s ever known the truth and managed not to let it change how they see me. Not until you. That’s when I knew.” He looks up to you, just to make sure that this is real and you’re not backing out. You lean forward, pressing a fleeting kiss to his lips in confirmation. He clear his throat,  picking up your ring and slips it delicately onto your finger.

When he’s finished, you interlace your hands, the rings on each of your respective hands rubbing together. There’s a soft breeze that’s blowing in from the east, swirling rogue hair around your face as the sparse clouds above you part. A tingle, hardlly noticeable, begins to climb up your spine. The wind is electric as if it’s carrying with it a thousand different emotions: love, sorrow, joy.

“Something’s happening,” your voice is almost nonexistent, only a fragile whisper. Tears fall from your eyes as feelings bubble up from your gut and spill out in fat tears down your cheek.

“I feel it, too,” Sam’s crying with you as he stands and reaches for your hand. You rise to your feet and, for a split second, time seems to stop. Then, in tandem, every white pom-pom of every dandelion in the field bursts into a million small, white explosions around you. The wind picks up and carries the spinning seedlings into the air.

“What is this?” you mutter in awe.

“I think it’s confirmation,” Sam laughs, pulling you into this arms, “I think this moment, finding each other, it’s why we’re here.”

 

**Three Years, Six Months**

Considering the general lack of purpose and abundance of free time, it’s surprising that there are still places in Shadow Hill where neither you nor Sam have ventured. However, The Tattoomb is an aptly named tattoo shop that you honestly can’t remember setting foot in before today. It’s nestled between The Sweet Shop and Cool’s Pharmacy near the end of main street.

The name proves accurate, for as the door shuts, you have a vivid flash of being sealed in a sarcophagus. The tall windows facing the street have been painted over black and you blink as the overhead fluorescent lights flicker to life. A thick layer of dust seems suspended in the air, as the lightbulbs hum electric in the background.

“Tell me, just one more time,” Sam urges. He’s squatting, sorting through supplies in one of the lower cupboards.

“Not again,” you whine, dropping into onto of the reclining chairs. “I know it like the back of my hand, I swear.”

“Humor me, once more and I’ll stop” he looks up, hitting you a full-on serious stare until you concede with a roll of your eyes.

“Fine. If I wake up back in the real world, the first thing I do is call Dean.”

“What’s the number?”

You rattle off the phone number without hesitation. “If I can’t reach him I try the other two numbers, for the angel and the sheriff. If I still can’t reach anyone and I have a way to get there, I go to Kansas where I find the Lebanon Community Library and I wait for you.”

“That’s right. If for some reason none of that works, just wait, I’ll find you.” Sam looks at you thoughtfully. He raises a tattoo gun and gestures for your to take off your shoe.

“And  _these_  in case we forget each other,” you squirm visibly displeased with what about to transpire.

“We don’t have to do this Y/N,” Sam offers, but neither of you are backing out.

You shake your head, “Let’s say we,one day wake up and have no memory of each other. There’d be nothing tying me to you…and…I can’t stand the thought of that.”

“I know, me neither” he sighs clutching your thigh, “You ready for this?” He’s used the temporary tattoo stencil to create the outline of your new permanent tattoo. He presses it onto the inside of your foot, near the heel. Wetting it just enough to soak through the thin paper, you both wait.

“No, but when have I ever let that stop me. You do know what you’re doing, right?” You trust Sam, but this is whole level of commitment.

“I read the instruction manual, twice. With the outline, it’s like paint by numbers.” He winks at you, flipping his hair back.

“You’re instilling so much confidence in me right now.”

You sit through the process with surprising restraint. The topical anaesthetic he applied prior helps, but it still doesn’t completely numb the pain. Thankfully, it doesn’t take him long; twenty minutes later, you’re looking down at small black letters reading:

> _Find Sam Winchester_
> 
> _39.809734, -98.55562_

It’s simple and to the point. It took the better part of two days to find the perfect words, just enough information to make sense without turning into Memento. The two of you quibbled over several variations until agreeing on the simple turn of phrase. You’re not entirely thrilled with having the coordinates to an underground bunker permanently inked into your skin, but it’s better than the alternative.

Sam covers you heel with a bandage, “I think this is my cue.”

“Please tell me I don’t have to do it,” you squirm.

“I’ll manage,” he assures you, slipping off his shoe and sock before crossing his left calf over his right knee. From what you can tell, he doesn’t even seem to feel it, unflinching as he etches your first and last name into his skin, followed by the coordinates of your hometown.

“You think that’ll be enough?” you ask, handing him the container of Tattoo Goo.

“I know myself well enough to know that I if I wake up with a girl’s name on my body, I’m gonna want to know why. That’s all I’d need. I’ll find a way to remember and I’ll have help.”

 

**Three Years, Eight Months**

It’s a frigid morning, icy wind is whipping at breakneck speeds, howling pasts the windows. The snow stays late this year, starting as gently falling flakes from above and morphing into a snow storm that hasn’t seemed to stop. But, the blustery outdoors is no concern to you or Sam as he turns the knob and the shower sprays down warm water over both of you. Dipping under the stream, you wet your hair and then give him a turn. There’s a series of slow kisses, just the lazy touch of lips while his nose rubs into yours, his tongue slipping easily into your mouth.

You had a fight the night before, a knock down, drag out, go-to-bed-angry-fight about a grilled cheese sandwich, of all things. Sam was pushing your buttons, insisting that the burner wasn’t high enough, the bread had too much butter, the cheese was cut too thick. You wanted to slap him.

But, last night seems like a distant memory as he had climbed into the shower and slid the door shut.

When he finally pulls away from your mouth, he moves to slip behind you. He washes your hair, massaging as you close your eyes, enjoying the sensation of his strong fingers rubbing your scalp, slow deep circles that send a tingle down your spine. Once he’s done with your hair, he moves on to the rest. He rolls soap between his hands until it lathers, then rubs his sudsy hands over your rib cage and up under each breast. He teases for a moment before giving in and cupping each one, kneading and clutching as you squirm back into his chest.

The water washes the soap away, but his hands don’t leave. Instead, fingers tug at your nipples as he lowers his mouth to the back of your neck, kissing and sucking as he pulls harder at your tits. You whine as he twists your nipples, applying just the right amount of pressure to awaken other parts of your body. Sam’s become an expert at all the places that get you going; he’s spent countless hours experimenting with touches- gentle here, harder there.

One hand stays on your breast while the other trails down your stomach. His hand spreads wide as it sweeps over your belly and then further. Large fingers sweep over your mound as the pad of his index finger finds your clit, and with expert precision, begins slow measured circles as you whimper.

“You like that?” Sam grins at the sound you make, nipping under your ear.

“Yessss..” you hiss, letting your head fall back onto his chest. As his mouth latches onto the skin of your neck, his hands don’t stop the well rehearsed movements. His finger moving firm and steady over the little bundle of nerves at the apex of your legs controls your whole body. The insistent rhythm of his hand between your legs and tugging on your nipples work in conjunction as your pussy begins to betray you, slick sliding down your thighs where the water washes it away.

You grind back into his embrace, his cock firmly pressing against your butt cheek. He rutts forward as you push back, relieving pressure, but not enough.  

“I’m gonna come baby,” you moan as your legs start to grow weak. Sam wraps his arm around your torso, holding you up. The hand between your legs hooks under as two of his long fingers push inside your cunt, his thumbs goes right back to your clit. He knows you don’t like to come without something inside you. He knows you hate that feeling of your pussy clutching at nothing. You reach back and above you, running your hand up his neck and knotting a fist of his hair.

“God, you’re wet this morning, this all for me?” he sucks your earlobe into his mouth as his thumb grazes your sweet spot and your orgasm rips through your body.

“Sam!” you call his name when you come, twitching in his grasp as your eyes roll back into your head. His thumb stills, but his fingers don’t budge, still shoved knuckle deep inside where you’re tight, clenching in frantic, repeating pulses.

When he does pull his fingers from you, it’s only to turn you toward the shower door. Still behind you, he takes each of your hands, one at a time, placing them on the glass of the door. You bow forward, breasts pressing into the cold glass. Back arched, ass out, Sam saddles up to your backside, one hand on your waist, the other guiding the head of his cock between your legs. You feel him, sliding over your slit and then pushing inside, one smooth push until his balls smash against your sex, leaving you unbelievably full. From this angle, he can push deeper than normal, reaching a place inside that makes your entire body quiver, shaking like jello from a mold.

“Sam, I can’t,” in lieu of finishing your sentence you make a desperate sound, one hand fisting as it pounds the door as he pulls out and shoves back in fast, begin a steady rhythm.

“I’ve got you,” he grunts, both hands on you hips, supporting your weight. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m not gonna last long like this.”

One of his hands snakes around your hips, pressing your stomach where there’s a faint swell in your belly with each thrust, his cock making your stomach bulge as he fucks you from behind.

“So deep,” you pant, pressing the side of your face into the glass, searching for some kind of stability.  Sam moves his finger down, searching for your clit, but instead, you bat his hand away, the angle is just right, making your see stars with every stroke of his manhood, “I can come just like this.”

“Shit,”Sam grits as he almost shoots his load right then. The idea of you coming from just his cock makes his balls tight. You raise up a little, mustering every last ounce of energy you have standing on your tiptoes and suddenly the angle goes from  _just right_  to  _sweet-mother-fuck_. He slides home once, twice, and that’s all she wrote.

If it weren’t for Sam’s support, you’d be on the ground, instead of suspended mid-air as he pushes inside again and again. It doesn’t take long before he’s coming, too, with a grunt and a stutter of his hips, spilling inside you.

Afterward he holds you, ,he wraps his arms tighter until you feel his thumping heart pressed into your shoulder blade. There are more of those lazy kisses accompanied by gentle touches as he washes your skin for a second time.

 

 

**Three Years, Eleven Months, One Week**

You stand next to Sam at your dining room table, the surface littered with dry herbs, open books, and at the center, a brass bowl. He’s grinding lavender while you read over the list of ingredients. This spell has been a long time coming, Sam stored it away on a whim when he first came across it four years ago, and he assumed you’d never be able to collect everything needed to make it work, but things are different now.

You’ve grown most of the herbs, collecting others from the forest, which is how you found the missing piece of the puzzle, the Olivine gemstone. The smokey green rock was nestled among the larger chunks of stone and granite near the north end of the town. He could hardly believe it when you pulled it from your pocket three days ago.

He sets down the mortar and pestle, spilling the mix of pummeled herbs into the center bowl, where it joins a complicated mix of gems and crystals. You check off the list as he adds each one.

“So, we still need the beak of a raven,” you curl a lip in distain.

“Got it,” Sam’s holding the tiny piece of bone between his fingers, “he died for a good cause.”

You nod, grateful Sam’s willing to do all the dirty work. “That’s it, I mean except for the next part.”

_The blood of true love._  Apparently old world magic doesn’t work without hemoglobin. He takes your hand into his, “Sorry,” he winces, using the tip of his blade to cut the flesh of your palm. Wet and warm, the blood pours from the wound and Sam moves it over the bowl, squeezing until he’s satisfied it’s enough. He picks up a cloth from the table, wrapping it several times around your palm, the dark stain seeping through. “My turn.”

Now, it’s time for you to get your hands dirty. Thee spell was explicit in its instruction; the blood has to be drawn by the lover. Taking the knife from him, you draw in a sharp breath, it’s now or never. Pressing down, you drag the blade, the feeling of his skin splitting makes your stomach turn. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, but he remains stoic for your benefit.

“That’s good, you did it,” he praises, taking the knife from you and holds his hand over the bowl, offering his half of the sacrifice. Wiping his hand on his jeans, he looks down the leather bound book. Next, he pulls out his wallet, removes a photo of him and Dean when they were kids. It’s as old as it looks, tattered around the edges. He’s about to burn the last thing in his possession tying him to the outside world. He scribbles a message on the back:

> _Dean,_
> 
> _Shadow Hill. Trapped. Two of us. I’m alive._
> 
> _Sam_

 

“I think that’s it.” He’s trying something new with this spell. No summoning or teleportation, he’s simply going to communicate, attempting to open a window through the fabric of space and time to push a message through.

Picking up the box of matches, he strikes one on the side of the box. His eyes dance from the flame to you as he drops it into the bowl. There’s a spark, a flash of light, then multicolored smoke twisting upward. There’s deafening silence, a stillness as you both stare at the dissipating smoke.

Then, chaos.

The walls of the house violently shake, as if the earth below is moving the very foundation. There’s a horrifying sound reverberating all around you, painfully loud like the scream of a thousand trumpets.

“Sam,” you reach for him but he’s already moving. Both hands on your arms, pushing you in front of him.

“We gotta get out of the house,” the sliding door that leads to the back deck shatters like it’s hit with a missile, glass and wood exploding in all directions. You feel it hit your face, but continue moving as Sam tries to cover your body with his. He guides you through the now empty doorway and down the trembling stairs of the deck.

Your feet hit the grass and you fall to your knees, the very earth undulating in savage tremors. Sam scoops his hands under your armpits and lifts you back up, dragging you away from the house and into the middle of the backyard where you both collapse.  You watch in terror as the entire neighborhood shakes and rattles, akin to the feeling of teeth clanking together in your mouth.

There’s a sound like the tearing of fabric, only at a brutal volume that makes you both cover you ears. Above the house, a hundred feet in the air, a sliver of white light begins to appear. It begins to expand, the chorus of sounds reaching a potent crescendo as shiny beams stream out in all directions like a star exploding in the daytime sky.

Just when you think your eardrums will pop, the shimmering tear begins to collapse in on itslf, sucking in sound and life like the cousin of a black hole folding inwards until there’s nothing left.

With a bright flash, it’s gone just as quick as it came.

The two of you sit side by side, stunned as the world returns to normal.

“I think it worked,” Sam whispers looking to you. His optimism is tempered as he gets a view of your face, “Jesus, baby, you’re bleeding.”

“What? Where?” you don’t feel pain with the adrenaline still pumping, your heart still thumping wildly in your chest.

“Your head,” he reaches up and wipes his finger across your hairline. Tiny shards of glass still lodged in your skin catch under the pads his fingers.

“Oh,” bewildered you bring a hand to your face to check, but it’s the wide splotch of blood on your palm that steals the attention. You turn your hand over, staring, but unable to make sense of it.

“Where is that from?” There’s a catch in his voice, an octave higher than normal as he grabs your wrist for inspection.

“I don’t know,” simultaneously you both took down, Sam gasping in horror at the jagged piece of wood protruding from the right side of your stomach. You wrap a hand around it, moving in slow motion because there’s a buzzing in your brain that’s muting everything else. You look up to him, offering casually, “I think I got hurt.”

“Fuck,” he bats your hand away, “don’t pull on it okay? It could make it worse.” You’re conflicted as to what is more troubling, the sight of your impaled stomach or the expression of sheer terror on his face.

Nodding agreeably you lay back. He lifts your shirt up, exposing the wound, and hisses when he gets a first look. The Sam that remains calm, cool and collected is not the man hovering over you. Instead, he’s panicking. “It doesn’t hurt, it just feels warm….although, I do feel kinda funny.”

The edges of your vision blur as a tingling sensation spreads outward from the gash, snaking through extremities until it reaches your fingertips. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, much like your foot falling asleep, except this is everywhere.

What you can’t see, is the amount blood that’s pouring from your belly, staining the green grass, and soaking through the denim of Sam’s jeans where he’s kneeling beside you. One moment you’re looking at him and the next, your eyes are rolling back into your head, lids fluttering shut.

“ _Nononono_ ,” he shakes your shoulders but you remain limp. “Come on, please don’t let this be happening. I don’t know what to do, baby.” He cries, blinking back tears.

Sitting back on his haunches, he takes a deep breath, separating action from emotion. He does know what to do, he’s been through his before, countless times with Dean and others. He makes a decision, taking you into his arms and jogging around the house and through the side door leading to the garage. Inside, there’s an old Toyota 4Runner he fixed up last year. He places you in the passenger seat, but the maneuver twists the wood stuck in your gut, pain jolting you awake with a scream.

“It’s okay, you’re gonna be alright,” Sam places a shaky hand momentarily at the side of your face before closing your door and running to the driver’s side. Laid over the seat, you lean against his shoulder as he pulls out of the driveway and onto the road.

“I don’t have what I need here,” Sam assures you.

“Where are we….” you choke out, clutching the open wound as you slip back into the dark.

“The hospital,” Sam mutters.

–

He pulls the car up to the emergency entrance, throwing the car into park with a jerk. He plucks you from the vehicle and scurries through the wide, automatic sliding doors then down the hallway of the abandoned Shadow Hill Community Hospital.

He knows the layout because when you first arrived, you searched this hospital from top to bottom. It’s just like everything else here, it’s resets every night, in which that means there are fresh medications and sterile instruments every morning.

Backing through the swinging doors of operating room one, Sam places you carefully on the gurnee, then he goes to work. Flipping every switch on the wall, the fluorescent lights flicker to life while he pulls open drawers, collecting everything he can: forceps, clamps, needles, adhesive tape.

Next, he moves to the small locked cabinet, breaking the glass to get inside. He reads each vial until he finds the lidocaine. Moving back to the table, he presses two fingers to the pulse point at your neck where he can feel a faint pulse. He fills a syringe and tries to numb the area around the wound as best he can.

And then, he does the most difficult thing he’s done in his entire life. He tries to save yours.

–

You hear the gentle blip of a heart monitor before anything else. It takes every ounce of strength you can muster up just  to blink and once you do, you wish you hadn’t. Your eyeballs feel like sandpaper, as does your mouth.

Turning your head, you’re greeted with the sight of Sam. He’s asleep on the adjacent hospital bed, mouth hanging open and belly down. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and blue scrubs, instead of jeans. His normal five o’clock shadow is thicker than normal making you wonder exactly how long you’ve been asleep.

“Sam,” you call, your voice little more than a scratchy whisper. He doesn’t budge.

Like an ancient computer coming online, sections of your body are waking up, one after the other. You wiggle toes, then fingers, just testing the basics. It’s when you try to sit up that every nerve lights up, pain so great that it’s hard to get a handle on. Your breathing is labored, and placing a hand on your chest, you wince, pulling down the neckline to reveal twin burn marks above each breast.

“What the hell,” you murmur, touching one of the blisters carefully. The realization dawns on you, these are the residual imprints from a defibrillator; your heart must have stopped.

“Sorry about those, I had the voltage up too high. In my defense, the lower settings weren’t getting the job done,” Sam’s voice is thick from sleep as he sits up, sliding from the bed and into the chair next you. He looks of somewhat between relief and exhaustion. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”  

“It’s good to be here,” you counter, then cough. The pain in you stomach surges as the muscles contract and you howl.

His brow furrows in concern as he takes a cup from the bedside table and holds it up to your lips. “Drink something.”

You swallow, then sputter, before shooing him away. Even swallowing hurts. “It was bad?”

“It still is bad,” Sam’s mouth twists, his eyes flicking down the floor and back up to you. He reaches out, taking your hand and squeezing. “For a while, I didn’t know if you were gonna survive, then I didn’t know if you’d wake up. I stitched you up as best as I could, but you’re gonna have one hell of a scar, it’s not pretty.”

“You have more than your fair share,  so, now we match.” Offering a weak smile you watch him watch you. “How long was I out?”

“Four days.” He’s trying to stay positive, but the look in his eyes is telling a different story.

“What’s wrong?”

He releases your hand, rubbing his palms on his knees, “It’s infected. You were running a fever until this morning.”

“That’s good right? That the fever’s gone?”

“Yeah, I just…I didn’t what I was doing Y/N. I was just trying to stop the bleeding…” he stops himself from telling you what he’s really thinking: that you could have internal damage, slowly killing you from the inside and there’s no way to know.

He doesn’t tell you that when your heart stopped and the screech of the flat line filled the room, he screamed along with it. He came  _this close_  to losing you. He doesn’t tell you that he stayed awake for two days, crying next to your bed and begging that someone would hear him. He tried bargaining with whatever silent force was watching over this place, pleading for the God he knows exists to intervene and save you.

But, there was no relief. Nothing. The two of you are nothing more than a forgotten experiment left to self destruct.

It was all on him.

–

Recovery is slow. You wonder if you’ll ever fully heal because the pain is an ever-present companion, haunting every move from morning until night. You struggle to sit up, then stand, then walk.  It’s three weeks before Sam allows you go home, still protesting as he drives you the four minutes from the hospital to your house. After that, it’s long days in bed, reading and eating meals brought to you on a tray until you think you’re going burst from the boredom of it all. But, you don’t complain, you just grin and bear it.

Yes, healing is a long and involved process for you both. For Sam, it’s the brutal realization that there is no safety net. It’s a simple fact he knew before but now he feels it, the desperation sinks in, right down to his bones. This place might repair itself every night, but that same magic doesn’t work on flesh and bone. There’s no one to fall back on, no one to reach out to. The love he feels for you should make him happy, but it’s tempered with a sense of dread, because eventually there will come a situation he can’t fix.

It’s only a matter of time.


	6. Year Five

**Four Years, Six Weeks  
**

Sometimes you stand naked in from the full length mirror in the bathroom and look at the shiny pink scar on your stomach that bears a stunning similarity to a washed up fish bone. Running the pads of your fingers over the raised skin you think about Sam, as if you’re rubbing a locket that reminds you of his unwavering love. A different version of yourself would be bothered by it, the tough, mangled flesh that healed without concern for aesthetics. But you feel grateful for Sam and, in a strange way, appreciative that Shadow Hill exists.

You’re lucky to be alive, this is your daily reminder.

**Four years, Two Months**

It’s mid morning when you finally drag yourself out of bed and meander downstairs. There’s coffee in the pot and bagels on the counter. Sam’s seated at the table still in his pajamas, bent over a copy of The World Hardest Crosswords Puzzles, Volume 7.

“Morning,” you greet him, casually reaching out and touching his shoulder as you pass by.

“Mornin’,” he responds without looking up, his tongue pressed between his lips in complete concentration.

“You making any progress?” He’s been stuck for two days.

“What?” he asks, utterly indifferent to clarification.

“Nevermind,” you pour yourself a cup of coffee, tugging open the refrigerator in search of milk. You’re normally a ‘black-cuppa-joe’ girl, but every once in awhile, you treat yourself to milk and sugar. You watch him as you stir your coffee, unable to keep from smiling at the sight of his wild bed head. Cupping the mug in both hands, you take a sip and gag as the rancid taste hits your tongue. Turning to the sink you spit it out, then stick your entire mouth under the faucet as you rinse the taste away.

“What the hell?” Sam looks borderline irritated that you’re interrupting his progress.

“The milk’s bad,” you say it before you realize the meaning behind it. Sam looks at you cockeyed and gets up from his chair.

“That’s impossible,” he picks up the milk jugs and smells it before taking a sip himself. “Oh my God,” he gags, pushing you aside gently to spit into the sink.

“See?” you raise an eyebrow, vindicated.

He pours himself a glass of water, resting his butt on the counter. “It’s probably just a glitch. I mean some things stay where we put them, so maybe a couple of wires for crossed somewhere.”

“Maybe,” you’re not unagreeable. Stranger things have happened before, never with the food, but there’s a first time for everything. So the next day, when there’s fresh milk magically waiting, you don’t give it too much thought.

**Four Years, Three Months**

“Do I look older to you?” You stop in front of the mirror in dining room, patting at the corner of your eye.

Sam wanders up behind you, looking at both your reflections. “You look beautiful.”

You smile, tipping your head to the side as you examining small wrinkles. “Thank you, but I wasn’t fishing for compliments. I mean it, do you think I’ve aged since I’ve been here?”

Sam thinks about it, stepping close and inspecting his own skin. “I don’t know. I can’t tell a difference. Do I look older?”

You turn to him, running your finger along his hairline, then down the side of his jaw. “No,” you confirm, “not a day.”

**Four Years, Four Months**

Sam looks back to make sure you’re still behind him and picks up his pace, racing up the steep hill that leads to the library. He loves mornings like this, late fall when the air is chilly before the first snow. The cold air strings his lungs, but it feels good to push past it and get his blood pumping. He knows you can’t quite keep up, but he’ll circle back for you, right now he just want to move faster, pushing beyond invisible barriers. By the time he’s at the top of the hill, the muscles of his legs are burning just the same as his lungs.

He jogs in place catching his breath and tipping his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. On days like today, he wakes up with the energy to do something new. He’ll settle for any-fucking-thing because the days are a mind numbing repeat of the weeks and months before. He just wants something to take his mind of the thoughts that play on repeat in his brain. It’s a never ending loop of worry and fruitless anxiety that picks at his insides until he wants to cut himself open for surgical removal.  

He wants to hunt, to have a mystery he can solve because the one he’s trapped in has beaten him ten times over. He wants to take you on a fucking date, go to a restaurant and have a stranger take your order. He wants to take you to the cabin on Astor Lake that Bobby took him and Dean to when they were kids. He wants to go the bar with Dean, drink too much, and get into a fight over the pool table. He wants to be more than Shadow Hill will allow, so instead he runs as fast and far as he can.

“You’re killing me long legs,” you pant, trotting up behind him. That voice, your voice, somehow makes it bearable. He turns, watching with amusement as you lean over with both hands on your thighs, gasping for air. Your cheeks are bright red, hair stuck to your sweaty forehead. He can’t imagine loving anything more he loves you, just like this; exasperated, but determined.

“You wanna head back?” he chuckles, putting a hand on your shoulder.

“Never,” you gulp, standing up straight, “I will not be defeated.”

“I’ll slow down a little, give you a fighting chance,” he takes your hand and pulls your across the lawn toward one of the dirt paths that lead through the tree line.

He takes it slow, running side-by-side down the winding path, determined to enjoy the parts of this life that are good, and there actually is a lot of good. There’s immense comfort in the sound of your footfall and labored breath beside him.

The tree that catches his attention isn’t far from the house, it’s just of the edge of the housing development. He slows and you fall beside him, “Hey, look at that.”

Wandering over to the old oak tree, it takes you a moment to see what he sees. All the trees are a shell of their summer selves, naked and stripped of leaves, nothing but raw, boney branches stretching toward the sky, but this one is different.

“It’s dying,” you mutter reaching out to touch the bark, peeling it away from the hollow wood underneath. “Sam, I’ve never thing seem anything here die. Not like this.”

**Four Years, Five Months**

“Sam,” you whine, wiggling under the full weight of his body. He’s not sure he will ever get used to the way you say his name, especially like this. What brief slivers of pleasure he’s had throughout his life never came close to the way he feels when he’s with you, naked on a sunny afternoon.

It feels like every inch of his skin is touching yours; his lips on your lips, his chest pressing against your warm, soft breasts. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, thighs squeezing either side of his hips as he rocks slow and steady on top and inside you. He reaches back hitching your leg higher around his hip, adjusting the angle just a little, but it’s enough to make you moan, clenching his cock with fluttering muscles.

Part of him wants to reach down and suck a nipple into his mouth, he does love sucking your tits while he fucks you, but there’s just something about the closeness of this moment that he hesitates to interrupt.

He likes to watch you, loves the way your mouth falls open as your head thrashes from side to side. You furrow your brow in pleasure as your fingernails dig into the flesh of his biceps, pulling him closer, urging harder. When you’re laid out like this with him grinding into you, he doesn’t even need to touch your clit to make you come. The slow, firm slide of his pubic hair over your sex does the same work his fingers normally do.

You come with his name on your lips. Sam follows soon after, spilling into you with his face pressed into you neck.

Neither of you know it yet, but this a moment that will alter your futures in a most profound way.

**Four Years, Five Months, Three Weeks**

The timing of your birth control pills is something you don’t play around with. There’s an alarm in the spare bedroom that goes off every morning at 10 a.m. sharp, screeching through the whole house until your run upstairs, tap the ‘off’ button and slip into the bathroom to swallow your daily dose.

Today is nothing special, you slap the clock radio silent and pop open the pink pack of pills. It’s the second day of your sugar pill, which means you’ll start bleeding by tomorrow morning. You gulp down the medication and smooth a panty liner into your underwear.

It’s the next morning before you realize your period’s late. It’s still early when you blink awake, still tired and sweating because Sam’s wrapped around you in a tangle of arms and legs. He’s like a furnace, skin running hot even after he’s kicked the sheet off his side of the bed.

You squirm out of his grasp, slipping from the bed. He catches your hand, asking without opening his eyes, “Where you going?”

“I have to pee.” Yawning, you meander half asleep to the bathroom. Without checking, you grab a tampon from the drawer before sitting on the toilet. It’s then that you realize: there’s no blood.

Your menstrual cycle is like clockwork, so this should send up a warning sign, but you were late once before so you chalk it up to nothing and assume it’ll come tomorrow.

Tomorrow turns into two days, and two days turn into a week. It’s real.

You take three tests, line them up on the sink and set the egg timer. You sit on the edge of the tub, legs bouncing with anticipation as the seconds tick by agonizingly slow. You haven’t felt strange, no nausea or dizziness, but you wouldn’t, not this early.

You’ve been trying to convince yourself there’s another reason for Aunt Flo’s sudden departure, but in your heart you know before you even look at the three positives looking back at you in happy pink letters.   
  


Your heart drops to your stomach.

—

Sam’s gutting a series of two way radios, wires, and circuit boards littered over the living room floor. He wants to figure out how to boost the strength of the signal, so they’ll work at opposite ends of town.

Squinting down at the diagram in ‘The Ham Radio Electrician’s Guide,’ he thinks he might need glasses. He hears you pad down the stairs, the soft rustle of bare feet on carpet. He’s about to ask where you’ve been all morning until he hears you sniffle.

You’re crying.

His chest is tight, fear rising from his gut to his heart. “What’s wrong, baby?”

He stands and you stop walking in the middle of the room, taking a deep breath of courage. There’s no point in trying to hide it, you don’t hide things for each other, not here. “I’m pregnant.”

Sam’s face falls slack as the words make their way from his ears to his brain, forming the thought: pregnant.

“What?” he stutters. “How? I mean, are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m late and I took a test, more than one.” You wait for him to respond feeling lost in the center of the living room.

“I, um, I don’t know what to say.” He’s hard to read, expressionless, and stationary as you take a step closer.

“Not the best news, huh?” you confirm with a sad grunt.

Sam takes your hands into his, looking you head on. He doesn’t want there to any miscommunication. “I love the idea of having a baby with you, hell, I want to have fifty kids with you…just not here. I don’t know a goddamn thing about giving birth, something could happen.”

Sam can tell himself all the lies he wants, but somewhere deep down he knows this is the only place he could ever be a father. Back in the normal world, he would never bring a child into this life. His whole existence has been a careful dance to stay alive and adding a baby to the mix would be just about the most selfish thing he could ever do. If this was ever going to happen, Shadow Hill is the only place it had the opportunity come to fruition.

“I can do this.”

“And what if you can’t? I’m not a doctor.”

“You don’t think I know that? Sam, women have been having babies for thousands of years without doctor and hospitals.”

“So, we’re just going to roll the dice?”

“What else is there? Do you want to get rid of it?”

“No, I don’t know…” he rubs his lips together, his heart breaking from the way you’re looking at him. He pulls you to him, closing his eyes and holding you tight, his heart beating out of his chest. “No, of course not.”

“I know that we-” you’re stopped as an uncontrolled sob tears from your throat and your voice leaves you.

“Don’t cry baby..” Sam squeezes you tight, one arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head.

“I don’t,” you gulp, pressing your face into this chest, “I don’t want you to hate this baby.”

“”Y/N,” he sighs, pulling your head back so you can look at him. “I could never hate something that we…created. I just don’t want to lose you.”

It’ll take him a while, but he’ll find a way to temper the dread with joy. He’ll grow into the idea of having a little one and start preparing for the day when he’ll need to add ‘midwife’ to his ever growing list of talents.

**Four Years, Eight Months, Three Weeks**

There’s a part of Sam is truly excited about the prospect of being a father. When he was in college and with Jess, he could imagine what it would be like: he’d be a lawyer, she’d work in a gallery or teach in a elementary school, they’d live in a suburb, and try to start a family once they’d been married for a few years. They talked about it, how many kids they wanted, what they would name them.

Sam’s dream of an all-American family died with along with Jess. He never imagined that in his thirties, he’d be given the opportunity. It’s not what the younger version of himself imagined, but what truly is?

He’s sprawled out in the bedroom across the hall from the one you share together, surrounded by the parts of a crib, each section laid out neatly. He promised he’d have it done by tonight, but he’s no longer so confident. He’s solved a lot of puzzles in his life, but the instructions for this particular item of furniture appear to have been written by someone with a questionable grasp on the English language.

You’re only four months along, but showing, really showing, not the bump he not-so-subtly sneaks peeks at when you’re changing or standing naked in the shower. Now, your stomach is rounded out, a perfect little globe, nestled in your midsection. There are little things about this child that makes his heart flutter, mundane details that end up replaying in his head. He likes the way your shirts stretch over you stomach, the material barely roomy enough to do the job. He loves the way you look when he fucks you, a surge of caveman pride stirring in his gut at the thought of you carrying his child. Mostly, he enjoys the idea that you’re going to be the mother of his child, that the two of you created life. He thinks it must be fate; must be written in the stars. He tells himself that fact when he can’t stop thinking about all the things that might go sideways.

There’s no way the series of events that led to this is at all random.

**Four Years, Nine Months**

You wake up nude.

It’s not unheard of, there are plenty of nights you fall asleep naked after being thoroughly worn out from Sam being between your legs. There’s always the intention of peeling yourself away from him to find something to sleep in, most of the time it doesn’t happen.

As you blink awake, it’s clear what woke you, you’re freezing. There’s only a sheet pulled up to your waist and your nipples are rock hard, a fully exposed barometer. You can feel Sam behind you, an arm heavy over the edge of your hip. You wiggle back into him, finding the curve of his body as your back meets his broad chest, round ass cheeks pressing into his warm, soft cock.

“Mornin’,” he mutters, sliding a hand over the curve of your stomach, flexing his bicep, squeezing you even closer.

“I don’t want to wake up yet.” Grumbling you press your face into the pillow. His hand starts to travel south from your belly, but stops short, moving back up to cup your breast.

“You’re freezing,” his mouth is at the back of your head, a smile in voice as he rolls a nipple between his thumb and index finger.

It’s going to be one of those mornings.

“That’s why I have you.” You run your hand over his arm, covering his much larger hand where he’s kneading your breast. “That feels good, don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sam places a kiss on your shoulder, then another and another as a chill runs down your spine. You run your fingers over his, encouraging him squeeze harder, it might be lazy morning sex, but today, you don’t mind it a little rough.

His hand slides down, this time all the way to your sex, wiggling his middle finger between soft flesh. He makes slow circles around your clit with just the pad of his finger.

He’s erect now, pushing forward into your ass, just enough to ease the tension. You reach behind you, snaking a hand between your bodies and wrap a hand around his cock. You both come like this, you writhing on your side and Sam spurting warm and wet on the small of your back.

After you both come down and clean up, you open the dresser drawer in search of underwear and clean clothes, but much to your surprise the dresser is empty. Before calling for Sam, you open the closet to find two shirts hanging on the rack. One is Sam’s, the other yours, the clothes you woke up when you first same to Shadow Hill.

Every subsequent morning you’ll wake up to a guessing game of what’s missing from the house, some mornings it’s clothes, other times toothpaste or canned goods. This reality is an analogue station whose frequency is half-static as it tries to retune itself.  

**Four Years, Eleven Months, One Week**

One thing is clear, this world is falling apart. What were once glitches and inconsistencies are now full-fledged issues that you find yourself combating on a daily basis.

“Sam!” You yell for him from the bottom of the stairs. The larger your belly gets the more you let him to come to you.

“What’s wrong?” His head pops around the corner at the top second floor hallway.

You really don’t want to tell him, he’s got enough to worry about, he doesn’t need something else, but there’s no way around this. “All the food, is, um…bad.”

“What do you mean?” he bounces down the steps.

“It’s spoiled.” You offer, letting him pass you, then following him to the kitchen.  

“What’s spoiled? It’s probably just…” his voice trails off as he opens the refrigerator and finds shelves of molding, decaying fruits and vegetables. “Shit.”

“It’s everything, the bread, too.” Sam believes you, but still grabs the loaf off the counter. There’s green mold pressed against the clear plastic packaging.

“It’s okay,” Sam shrugs, his mouth fighting a grimace. “Lets just go into town, see what’s going on at Tolliver’s. You alright to walk? ”

“Sure,” you nod. “Might as well go now.” You make sure to stay active, walking several miles every day so fitting this situation into your daily routine feels somewhat reassuring.

Sam has to pace himself, walking slow enough that you’re able to keep up as you meander down the street. He holds your hand, his vice grip betraying his nerves. He might be pretending to play it cool, but inside, he’s on the verge of panic.

Once you arrive at Tolliver’s, you discover moldy fruit and soured milk. After popping open a couple of cans, Sam sighs with relief. At least the items with a longer shelf life are still edible. He fills his backpack and you make the journey back to the house. That evening you feast on a dinner of baked beans and canned chicken.

“I’m sure we’ll wake up tomorrow and it’ll all be back to normal,” he assures you.

Sam’s wrong. The next day, and every day after, you’ll eat food from a jar. The easy days are over and the challenges that lie ahead will be the toughest you’ve experienced so far.

**Four Years, Eleven Months, Two Weeks**

The summer has been unseasonably hot. The four previous years brought favorable temperatures, never anything this extreme. By noon everyday, the gauge on the porch reads the outside temperature to be hovering close to 100°F. A heat wave like this, coupled with your pregnancy, means you relegated to the house and the air conditioning.  

Once the sun goes down, you mill around the yard and try to save your dying garden, but for the most part, you spend your days reading baby books and trying to wrap your head around the fact that you’re going to give birth in ghost town.

It’s mid-afternoon when you lay down to take a nap on the couch. Sam’s gone on a trip to the library with your wish-list of literature along with few of his own. You’re not sure how long you’re asleep, but when you wake up it’s incredibly uncomfortable. You smack dry lips together and sit up as sweat rolls down your forehead and infor your eyes.

“Oh God,” you groan rocking to stand up off the couch. Your shirt is stuck to your chest, sweat stains soaking through. You pad to the thermostat to check the temperature but the small screen is blank. “Wonderful.”

In the small bathroom off the living room, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your face is bright red, cheeks looking like ripe peaches. You strip right then and there, taking a cold shower. Once you’re done, feeling more like a normal person, you pull a clean tank top and pair of panties from the dryer, it’s about all you can stand to wear.

An hour later, Sam walks the through the front door, drenched in sweat from his bike ride, expecting a blast of arctic air, only to be met with your sweltering home. He drops his backpack to the floor and kicks off his shoes. “Y/N?”

“I’m in here.” Sam finds you at the dining room table in your underwear with a glass of ice water, situated in front a box fan you pulled from the storage closet.

“What happened?” He asks taking the glass of water you offer.

“I don’t know, it’s just not working.”

**Four Years, Eleven Months, Three Weeks, Six Days**

There’s a “boom!” right outside your bedroom window that jolts both of you awake. Sam’s out of bed before you even sit up, pulling back the curtain to look at the yard. You don’t realize it at first, but there’s a glow on his face from something lit up outside. You blink, watching his eyes widen and mouth fall slack.

“Holy fuck.” He’s staring in awe at whatever scene is unfolding before him.

“Sam, what’s wrong?” It takes you two tries before you successfully swing your feet over the side of the bed and walk to him. You pull back the other side of the curtain and your heart nearly stops. It looks like a scene from an apocalyptic movie. There’s a hole in the roof of the garage across the street and it’s on fire. What appears to be fiery debris is raining down all over the lawn, a million tiny embers falling from the night sky. You don’t say anything, you just stand next to him as another giant rock, the size of a car, falls from somewhere above and makes a crater in the middle of the road, just down the street from your house. “What do we do?”

“We get ready,” Sam looks at you, his face expressionless.

**Five Years**

“We’re gonna die,” you whisper, tucked under Sam’s arm sitting on the front steps of your house. You both should probably be inside taking cover in the basement, but it seems futile. There’s fire raining down around you, a world ablaze as it self destructs in one final, glorious crescendo.

“I’ll be with you when it happens,” he pulls you tighter to his side, closing his eyes as tears roll down his cheeks. The arm around your shoulders pulls your head to his chest, his other hand resting on your stomach, covering his unborn child.

The roof of the house across the street collapses when it’s hit with what looks like an asteroid. This is biblical: fire from the heavens.

“I’m scared Sam,” you lift your head to look at him, “I’m not ready.”

“I know,” he wants to tell you he’s scared too, he wants to scream and beg and lose his damn mind with grief and panic. But, he doesn’t do that to you, you need him now more than ever. “I didn’t think it was going to end like this.”

“What? Death from above?” you laugh, half crazed wiping your wet face.

“Well that, too…I always thought I’d die saving someone, on a hunt with Dean. But, this is better.”

“How could this possibly be better?”

“I’m a father and husband. I have you. It could be a lot worse.” His voice cracks at the end as he cries. You pull him to you, grasping each other.

The ground shakes and the sky rapidly turns black, inky clouds swirling overhead. There’s a deafening sround, like the universe is tearing in half. You both know: this is it. Sam takes your face between his hands, kisses you lips softly, “Just look at me.”

You look into his eyes, shaking in fear. “I love you, Sam.”

His mouth twists in agony, blinking out a final tears as he says “I love y-”

He’s gone.

The hands holding you are suddenly absent. You blink and he vanishes.

“Sam?!!” you scream at the top if your lungs, frantic as you call for him. “Sam!!!!”

You scramble to your feet ready to run, to find him, but you don’t know where, you don’t know what to do. The panic overtakes you completely, clasping at your chest trying to breath. The child inside you, in just as much distress, kicks the inside of your stomach. You gasp, what will be your last breath in Shadow Hill whispering, “I don’t want to die alone.”

Everything fades away and suddenly your world is black, void, and nothingness.


	7. Life, After

“Come again?” Dean raises an eyebrow. Sam just looks across the table, chugging a bottle of water. He woke up fifteen minutes ago sprawled out in the hallway. He came to just as Dean smacked him hard across the face.

“I know how it sounds, but it’s the truth.” Sam wants to take a moment, just a beat and try to wrap his head around the fact that he’s home, but he doesn’t have the luxury. You’re not there.

“You’re sure it wasn’t a dream, or maybe a Djinn?” Dean places his hands on the table, leaning toward his brother.

“No,” Sam runs both hands through his hair, blinking while trying to shake off layers of fatigue and exhaustion. Whatever pulled him back into the real world zapped every ounce of energy in the process. “This wasn’t like anything we’ve ever seen before. Are you sure it’s only been five months?”

“I’ve been going crazy looking for you. I think I’d know if you were gone for five years.” Dean sets a hand on his hip, the other gesturing toward Sam. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“Yeah, I feel ok. Just tired and thirsty.” Sam twists his torso, his back in knots and his shoulders sore. He feels like he got hit by a semi-truck.

“You were there with some chick?” He raises an eyebrow.

Sam sets down the empty bottle on the table and put his lips together before responding. “We’ve got to talk about some things…”

Before Sam has a chance to finish, or for Dean to respond, Dean’s cell phone rings loud in his pocket and Sam’s face goes white.

-

You roll your eyes behind dry eyelids, unable to determine where you are or what’s happening. All the sounds around you blur into one dull droning of blips, buzzes and muffled voices. The first noise your ears hone in on is that of the a heart monitor. You know the sound well and, for a moment, you have a flash of waking up in the Shadow Hill Community Hospital.  

Whole thoughts aren’t forming yet; instead it’s just base knowledge as you fight through the fog in your head.

_Beep_

_Beep_

_Beep_

The monitor speeds up as you struggle to open your eyes. There’s a muted chorus of voices as you sort through the commotion. You can’t put the logic of it together but you’re listening for Sam’s voice somewhere in the mix.

It’s the familiar sound of your mother that straightens out first, sharpening from mumbled sounds into crystal clear words.

“I think she’s waking up,” she sounds excited, her voice catching. “Go get the nurse.”

“Just push the button,” Your father joins in. You almost melt as his presence is confirmed.

“Can you hear me Y/N?” Your mom asks. Her question is mixed with the sensation of her hand on your arm. You know her touch. Swallowing, you muster strength, blinking both eyes open. The light burns and you groan, fluttering until you see mom, sitting in a chair at the right side of your bed.

“Thank God,” your father exclaims taking your other hand. You turn to look at him, weakly squeezing his fingers.

“Hi,” you rasp, then cough as the words set your throat on fire.

“Don’t talk sweetheart,” your mother cries. “We’ll get you some ice chips. For fuck’s sake Clint, go get the doctor!” Even in your altered state, it’s shocking to hear her drop a F bomb.

A lot happens all at the same time. All the events of the previous five years come back to you in a flood of memories that make your brain feel like it’s exploding inside your head. You shriek, doubling over in pain. The delivery of this remembrance is accompanied by clear thought. The onslaught of the relocation shakes you free from the trauma and the drugs. You shoot from groggy and confused to painfully alert in the snap of a finger.

Your father holds your mother while she cries as your surrounded by doctors and nurses. All it takes is a push of a needle into your IV and the sedation lulls you back into a dark sleep.

**Twelve Hours Later**

When you awake a second time, the transition is smoother than the first. Your mother hovers on the constant verge of tears as your father tries to make awkward small talk. A police detective arrives at the same time as your dinner. Nibbling on the corner of a slice of white bread, you answer a series of uncomfortable questions as your family looks on in quiet judgement.

“So you’re sure that no one held you against your will?” The officer cocks his head as his eyes drift to your parents. “Maybe we should talk alone.”

“It’s ok,” you assure him. “I was just feeling overwhelmed by - life you know? I wanted to get away and clear my head and I guess I kinda panicked. I should have called or told someone I was alright but I…I’m really sorry.”

You don’t even want to look at your parents, if they even buy your story. Which is doubtful. They’re going to be so disappointed that it might break your heart. But the truth isn’t an option. Not unless you want to be committed.

“I keep asking about this because, not only does everyone you know say this disappearing act was completely out of character, but you’re pregnant and the doctors say you’re severely malnourished. That sends up some red flags, you know? Like maybe you were in a situation where you didn’t have access to food.”

“It’s been a hard pregnancy, I’ve been sick a lot.” You run a hand over you stomach.

“You can tell the truth honey,” your mother leans forward from her perch on the windowsill. Her eyes are brimming with tears. She wants so badly for there to be a reason that you so abruptly abandoned the people who love you and you want nothing more than to give her a better answer, but there isn’t one. “You have a man’s name tattooed on your ankle, it’s practically a brand! Someone must have made you-”

“Mom,” you stop her, struggling to sit up straight. “I met a guy, I got drunk…he’s got one too. No one kidnapped me or made me do anything. I just needed to get away for awhile.”

–

“There’s someone here who’s very excited to see you.” You mother forces a upbeat, sing-song tone.

When Jack walks through the door, he’s a wearing a shirt similar to one of Sam’s favorites. For a split second you think that Jack is Sam, your heart swelling and sinking in the same moment. Part of you almost forgot about him. The sight of his familiar face feels like a dizzy memory from a dream.

“I can’t believe it,” he smiles sinking down on his haunches at the side of the bed. “I knew you were out there somewhere.”

“I, um, I’m sorry.” Apologizing has become your new default. Over the last twenty-four hours you’ve found yourself often without a response and ‘I’m sorry’ seems to be your only answer.  

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” His hand is sweeping gently down the side of your face. You close your eyes and shift away from his touch. It doesn’t seem to phase him. “You’re here now and that’s all that matters. We can all move on from here. Together.”

During the time in Shadow Hill with Sam, you thought of Jack and figured he would mourn your loss and quietly go on with his life. This is clearly not the case.

“You waited five years for me?” You whisper is disbelief.

“Five months honey,” your mother pats the back of your hand.

Right. You slipped again. You and Sam talked about this. About all the scenarios of being thrown back into your old life. Sam was one who insisted you go through every possible set of events, including the fact that time might pass differently in Shadow Hill. Five years there could be five days or five decades here.

“Right,” you offer a lopsided smile, things making more sense now. “I meant five months.”

“Of course I waited,” Jack takes your hand into his, you resist the urge to immediately pull away. “I can’t tell you how relieved we all are, and I couldn’t be happier. I’m so thankful you’re both alright.” He reaches out of places a hand over your round belly. You hold your breath.  

He thinks the baby is his, they all do. You look at your parents who yet again are fighting to hold back emotion. You’re almost seven months pregnant, according to this timeline you would have been two months along when you disappeared.

“Please,” you lift his hand away from you stomach, stumbling over your words. “Just don’t…don’t do that.”

“There’s nothing be afraid of,” Jack tries to sooth you. “I’m ready for this. We talked about having a family one day.”

“It’s not your baby.” You clarify, maybe a little too blunt but there’s no taking it back now.

“What are you talking about?” He tips his head, his smile waning.

“Yes,” You mother stands up, her eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what?” You’ve had enough. You’ve danced the dance for a day now, but you’re tired and exhausted. You’ve pushed Sam out of your mind because you’ve been under a microscope since you woke up, but in this moment you’re done. “I need everyone to get out of my room.”

“Just calm down sweetheart.”

“I don’t want to calm down.” You pick up the remote and hit the ‘call nurse’ button frantically. “I want to be alone.”

As soon as the door to the room clicks shut, you pick up the phone beside the bed and dial the number you’ve memorized like the back of your hand. It’s truth time.

“Hello?” A gruff voice answers. He sounds cranky, thank God.  _Dean, it has to be him._

“Dean?” You ask.

“Yeah who’s this?” He snaps back. You hear Sam in the background. Your heart speeds up to a gallop, an idiotic smile spreading across your face.  

_“Give me the damn phone!”_  You hear Sam shout.

“Sam?” you confirm, tears spilling in relief.

“Y/N?” Sam’s voice is shaky. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

“Are you alright?” Biting your lip, you contain the urge to squeal. You’re both alive and you both remember. “I’m in the hospital.”

He ignores your question. “Why are you in the hospital? Is the baby-”

“We’re both alright. I just turned up unconscious on my parents lawn in the middle of the night. The neighbor’s kid said he saw me fall from the sky. I don’t think anybody believes him, but I do. I’m banged up.”

“Dean found me in the hallway. I didn’t wake up until an hour ago. I’m gonna come get you, just stay where you are.” There’s rustling on the other end of the line.

“This is good right? We both remember?”

“It could be a lot worse.”

-

Sam makes the twelve hour drive in a little under ten. Dean protested, pointing out that he needed sleep and maybe a doctor but in the end he took the keys and didn’t look back.

He slips into your room just after sun comes up. It’s still early enough that your constant stream of visitors hasn’t yet arrived. You’re sleeping soundly, mouth hanging open with a bag of saline dripping into your arm. Your face looks thin, more gaunt than he remembers. He’s grown used to seeing you nearly every moment of every day but being apart, even for forty-eight hours, gives him a new perspective. Your face should be rounder, filling out as your stomach grows. But between the lack of food and plethora of stressors during your last months in Shadow Hill, you went in the other direction. He didn’t realize exactly how much until now.

Your eyelids flutter open the moment he takes your hand, a lazy, happy smile budding at the sight of him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he squeezes your fingers, before bring your hand to his mouth.

“I missed you.” You confide. His heart still skips when you say things like that.

“Missed you too, baby.” He kisses your knuckles, wrapping both his big hands around your small fist. “Do you feel good enough to get out here? If you need to stay, that’s fine. But people aren’t gonna stop asking questions, at least for a while. It’s probably better if you get your bearings before you start giving answers.”

“I’m good. I’ve probably already said more than I should have, but I stuck to the stuff we talked about.” You explain.

Sam stands, then leans down to kiss you. Your lips are dry as the desert but he doesn’t care. He rubs his nose into your cheek, nuzzling with gentle press of his mouth on yours.

“What the hell is going on here?” Your father’s voice snaps you both to attention and Sam stands up straight.

“Dad,” you try to intercede, propping yourself up into a sitting position.

“It’s ok,” Sam takes a step away from you.

“I don’t know who the hell you are and frankly I don’t care, you better get away from my daughter.” Clint has always been an imposing figure but he’s larger than life when it comes to his kids. Your father radiates a ferocious protectiveness.

Sam looks to you and moves away from the bed. “I wouldn’t hurt her.”

“You better pray you’re not the reason my little girl has been missing,” his voice hitches up an octave. You’ve only seen him cry once before.  “Or be the father of that baby because I swear to God I will kill anyone who puts their hands on my daughter-”

“Daddy it’s okay, I’m alright.” You reach out for him. “Sam, I think we need a few minutes.”

Sam doesn’t hesitate, just sets his jaw and nods before leaving the room. You father is pissed as hell at you and he’s held it back until now.

“You’re a smart girl. How is it you expect me to believe that you would just fall off the face of earth and turn up five months later, pregnant and with a ring on your finger. Are you married to that man? Someone we’ve never met? I know you Y/N, you wouldn’t do that. Not to your mother and I.”

“Maybe old me wouldn’t have, but things happened Dad.” If you had half a shot at getting through to anyone, it was him.

“Then tell me what happened.” He takes your hand just as Sam had, only he clutches it so tight it hurts.

“I can’t. Not yet anyway. You wouldn’t believe me if I did, anyhow. I know this is hard, but you have to find a way to trust me. Maybe you can’t right now, and that’s alright. But I just need a little faith. You know that I’m not influenced by anyone. What happened was unexpected, but if I had to do it all over again, I would. Sam is a good man and we love each other. I fell in love, the kind of love that you and Mom have. I can’t explain it all to you now, but what happened to me wasn’t bad.”

He’s still, looking at his feet. “You’re going with him?”

“You were listening.” You sigh, tipping your head back. “I have to go, for a while at least. Someday, I hope to tell you everything.”

“And he’ll take care of you?” A tear drops from the corner of his eyes and he wipes it away with a cough.

“Oh Dad, he already has.”

“This feels kinda like you’re saying goodbye, kiddo,” he pats your knee, looking away.

With a quivering chin, you watch his eyes close, “Probably because I am.”

**The Bunker**

The Bunker is depressing.

As the heavy metal door slams shut behind you, there’s a creeping sense of dread that simmers in your gut. It’s silent, deathly silent, no faint chirping of birds in the distance or sunlight streaming through a open curtain. No, Sam and his brother live in a subterranean tomb that’s a far cry from the happy home you once shared together.

“Come on.” Sam takes your hand, winding down a metal staircase as you descend into the belly of the beast. He’s described this place to you in painstaking detail, enough that you thought you’d be prepared for the reality of being here but you were wrong. It’s dark, ominous and frightening.

There’s soft music playing, getting stronger as Sam leads you down a winding hallway. Strains of Simon and Garfunkel greet you as Sam pushes a door open to a small bedroom where you find a man perched on the bed. He’s cleaning a gun, it’s metal parts disassembled and neatly laid out over his bedspread.

_This must be Dean._

He looks up, pausing before wiping oily hands on a rag. He doesn’t speak, just looks from Sam to you, then to your stomach as his lip twitches. “Hey.”

Sam’s hand is at the small of your back, pushing you to take a few steps into the room. This feels wrong. You’re out of place, especially in his brother’s private space. You don’t belong here and you’ve got a sneaking suspicion all three of you know it.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice is strained. “Dean, this is Y/N. Baby, this is Dean.”

Dean has a physical reaction when Sam calls you  _baby_. He flinches as his eyes close momentarily, mouth pinching tight. You force yourself to move forward and extend a hand to him.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’ve been hearing about you for years, so it’s weird to finally, you know…” When Dean doesn’t move, your left standing awkwardly with your hand hanging limply in front of you. He looks from you to Sam again and shakes his head.

“Dean…” Sam fires a warning shot.

“Yeah, it’s pretty fucking weird.” Dean flashes a dry smile, and twisting the rag in his hands. “I’m kinda in the middle of something here. Maybe we could do this later, Sam?”

“Alright.” Sam’s word choice is innocuous, but he might as well have responded with ‘Fuck you’.

Sam ushers you down the hallway and swings open the door to the room you’re meant to share. Everything is cold brick and hard floors, including the metal frame of his tiny bed. He’s nervous, fidgeting as he shows you the few personal items he owns. His life is sort of…sad.

For the first time in a long time, neither of you know what to say. This is a Sam you’ve only heard about in stories. This is Sam the hunter, whose life is hard and rough and scary. A life that you don’t fit into.

-

They’re speaking in hushed tones, but it sounds exactly like the muted arguments your parents had at night when you were younger. Adults trying desperately to avoid innocent ears.

“I need you to do better than whatever that was.” Sam hisses.

“I’ll roll out the welcome wagon when we know for sure what she is, Sam. Until then, I’m playing this close to the chest.” Dean snorts and his fist hits something solid.

“What are you talking about? We’ve been over this-”

“No, you went over it and I told you I’m not buying it.”

“She’s not a monster, Dean, she’s just a woman.”

“Honestly,” Dean’s dry laugh gives way to naked hostility, “For her own sake, I hope you’re wrong. We can’t even keep other hunters alive and your plan is bring a pregnant high school science teacher into the mix?”

“Dean-”

“No, I get it. You dropped off the grid and fell in love and now you’re having a frickin’ kid. Which, by the way, don’t even get me started on that. You couldn’t wrap it up? What were you thinking? And while we’re on the topic, do you even know for sure that baby is yours? What if she’s been playing you this whole time?”

“I can’t deal with this right now.” Sam’s voice interjects at full volume. “I get that you need some time to wrap your head around this, but I can’t wait around for that. I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to do.”

“Fine,” Dean agrees. “You let me know what you and your teacher come up with.”

-

Sam feels larger than life when he wraps around you in his narrow, rickety bed. You pretend to sleep, too tired to talk and maybe a little afraid of what might be said.

‘You awake?” He whispers, resting a hand on your hip. When he doesn’t get a response he sighs, pulling you back into him the way he has a thousand times before. That familiar smell and warm body lull you slowly to sleep in this strange new world.

**Two Days Later**

“You doin’ ok?” Dean sits across from you, with a beer and a whiskey, alternating between the two. You can tell just by the look on his face that he’s skeptical of the whole situation. Sam keeps telling you Dean gets it, that he’s on board, but it’s clear he’s just trying to placate you.

“I’m just exhausted, but other than that I’m good.” You sip the warm can of coke as the two of you try not to look at each other.

“Sam has a lot to say about you.” Dean forces the conversation.

“I bet it’s nothing compared to how much I’ve heard about you. I feel like I know you.”

“Five years is a long time to be alone together.” Dean nods soberly. “The whole thing is almost unbelievable.”

“Look, I get that you don’t really trust me.”

“I’m not trying to be a dick.” He holds his hands up. “I’m still on the fence. Sam’s gone for five months and when he comes back he’s got a ring on his finger and you’re…friggin’ pregnant. You’ll have to forgive me if I need a little time. Sam’s been through a lot. I’ve seen him get screwed over more times than I can count and until I’m a hundred percent about who, or what, you are, I gotta keep asking questions.”

“Okay.” You concede.

“Okay?” he raises an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“It’s pretty much what Sam said would happen.” You shrug. “‘My brother won’t trust you, it’s gonna take him a while, just gotta be patient and get to know each other.’”

“I got a lot of questions for you.”

“Go ahead.”

**One Week**

“Hello,” the soft voice is not one your familiar with. You turn around to find a man standing in the doorway. He offers a warm smile and takes a step into the room.

“Hello,” you return. There’s something about him you can’t quite put your finger on it, but his presence calms you, along with the thousands of thoughts rattling around in your skull since you woke up in the hospital. Your mind narrows down to this moment, able to focus on nothing other than the unassuming person in front of you. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are. Sam didn’t say anyone was coming by.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” he chuckles, dismissing you with a wave of his hand. He leans toward you as if he’s letting you in on a secret. “He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“What do you mean?” You should be worried, his confession should send up a red flag, but it doesn’t. Questioning your own actions you invite him in. “Do you want to sit?”

“No, I’m good. But you might want to.” There’s a glint in his eye, followed by a sigh and the exhale of someone who’s exhaustion rivals your own.

“Okay,” despite having no intention of sitting, you find yourself seated on the bed.

“What are you doing here?” Sam interrupts your private conversation, Dean trailing behind him. They both looked pissed.

“Okay, I get it. You’re upset and you’ve got a right to be.” He responds shrugging casually.

“Does anybody wanna fill me in?” You inquire.

Sam glares, shaking his head in disgust. “This is Chuck.”

Chuck. You thought Sam was kidding or the tales he told were a metaphor…but Chuck’s really just a guy that looks vaguely like your middle school youth group leader.

“You’re God.” Despite your past misgivings, there’s no doubt in your mind that he is exactly who Sam told you about. You can feel it in your bones. “Oh my God, I mean…I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No worries,” his upbeat tone is not what your pictured from the supreme almighty.

“It’s nice of you to show up,” Dean’s disgusted. “I’ve been praying for months now and you’re nowhere to be found but suddenly you decide to grace with your presence. Thanks”

“You know I don’t like to interfere.”

“Why are you here?” Sam comes to stand beside you, putting himself between you and, well… God.

“I’m glad you asked,” Chuck clasps his hands together, seemingly excited. “I just had to see her in person. I mean, Sam. She really is a work of art. Beautiful, smart and loves you like the dickens.”

“What do you mean?” Sam reaches back, taking your hand.

“She’s incredibly complex. Near perfection.” He tips his head to the side, eyeing you up and down but you feel him inside you. He’s in your head and your heart, rooting around. “I really have to hand it to her. She’s right up there with Rembrandt and Chopin. Intricate, detailed, and just damaged enough to make it work. I don’t know that I could have done better myself. ”

“What. Are. You. Talking. About.” Sam grits, pulling you to your feet and tucking an arm around your waist.

“I thought you would have at least had some idea.” Chuck looks expectantly from Sam to you and back again. “My sister cooked her up. Her first real creation and she outdid herself.”

“Creation?” you whisper, feeling lightheaded.

“What the fuck are you-”

“You can’t tell me you didn’t have an inkling…” Chuck interrupts Sam. “I mean, she plucked her right out of that fantasy you used to have. You know, the dream, you remember the one you used, enjoyed…Oh no, you thought…you thought it was a premonition? ”

“Stop speaking in riddles and just tell us what’s the hell is going on.”

“Look, you know what my sister is like.”

“This was Amara?”

“She wanted to give you something.” He shrugs. “She gave Dean what he wanted most, your mother, and then she wanted to give you something too. She said she thought about Jessica, but you’re too different now. Too grown up for that to work organically, so she decided to create something, or should I say someone, just for you. ”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.” Dean snorts, apparently the only able to articulate any emotion.

“I am not shitting.” Chuck presents a grim smile and shrugs. “Let’s look on the bright side. She really nailed it.”

“I don’t understand,” you’re wilting into Sam but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s stoic, save for a flare of his nostrils. It’s a look you’re familiar with. He’s furious. “That doesn’t make sense. Before we woke up in that place I had a life, I had a family.”

“Well technically you didn’t,” Chuck rolls his hand in the air letting you know he’s not finished. “It’s the beauty of what she managed to accomplish. It wasn’t just you she had to pull out of thin air, it was everything. Your family, your friends. Heck, those memories you have of your dad. I’m impressed.”

There are no words to describe how you’re feeling but disbelief comes the closest. It’s not that you don’t trust what he’s telling you, just like everything else you know it’s true. But you can’t comprehend it.

“Why Shadow Hill? She just wanted to watch us swim around the fish bowl?” Sam spits, his arm leaving your waist as he takes a step toward God himself.

“Sam, you know as well as I do your life is pretty pathetic. She didn’t think having you meet at a singles’ bar would do the trick. She said she wanted you to have time be with each other without all…this. She was gonna give you ten years and then zap you right back here.”

“Perfect,” Sam grunts, there’s venom in his voice.

“You said ten years,” you take deep breath. “We were only there five and the world fell apart. There was literally fire raining down from the sky.”

“That spell the two of you cast cracked the ecosystem.”

“A crack that couldn’t be fixed so we ended up with front row seats for the end of the world?” Sam interjects. “There wasn’t even food at the end. Y/N was pregnant and terrified and I couldn’t even fucking feed her. Where was your sister? Did she get bored?”

“She used to check in on you from time to time to ensure everything was going to plan, but you caught her once. She said you saw her and she had to erase the memory. After that she was gun shy. She took a page out of my book and stayed away. Let things play out.”

He snaps his fingers and Sam can remember the night in the rain. He can see Amara slipping out the front door of the house and into the torrential rain.

“Where the fuck is she?” Sam presses. “Why isn’t she here telling us all this?”

“Because she had a very specific plan. You get ten years of domestic bliss and then you’re back here like nothing happened. You’d have been missing less than a year and life would move on.”

“Like I never existed?” you clarify.

“Exactly. If she turns up now I’m afraid she might reset things. You know I prefer to give you the choice, Sam. I’m all about free will. If you decide you want the slate wiped, I can take care of it.”

“No.” Sam squares off his shoulders and side steps between you and Chuck.

“I realize it’s a hard decision and I’m sorry.” He peaks around Sam to let you know the apology is meant for you. “You should take some time and talk it over.”

“We don’t need time.” Sam shoots back.

“It’s not just your choice Sam, there’s two other people involved.  Talk about it, decide what’s best for her and your son. You can let me know.”

And with that, he’s gone.

-

“How do you feel? You know, about what he said.” Sam asks. He’s kept his distance since the revelation, but it’s been a few hours and you’re about as settled with the idea as you’re going to get.

“You mean the fact that I only exist to fill your wants and needs?” You scrunch your nose. “My inner feminist is pretty pissed.”

“You’re deflecting.” He sits on the edge of the bed, giving your thigh a squeeze.

“Because I don’t even know where to start.”

“You’re real, just as I am.” He face is strained, he’s trying but he’s off the mark.

“That’s not even the part that I’m worried about Sam! It’s the rest of it. It’s where we go from here. Are we going to have a baby and live a bunker with your brother? If by some miracle we aren’t murdered in our sleep by a monster or demon or whatever, we’re doomed to fail anyway. You’re the one who told me that the people in your life die. That you and I would never have worked in this world.”

“Things are different now.” He swallows, running a palm over the stubble of his jaw. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“You’ll die trying, Sam.” You want to shake him. “You’ll take a bullet to protect us or have a heart attack at forty from the stress of it all.”

“We can make it work,” Sam blinks, looking at the dead expression on your face. When what you’re insinuating hits him, his anger becomes palpable. “You’ve already given up.”

“I don’t want to. I love you so much and this baby, I…it’s all I want. But it’s not about what I want anymore. How can we bring a child into this? I know you Sam. You’re the guy who leaves because he thinks it’ll be better that way.”

“I won’t.” he’s hurt, and frankly, now pissed at you. “You think after everything we’ve been through, the only options we have are that I abandon you or Chuck snapping his finger and you never happened? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m trying to be practical.” You sputter.

“Well fuck that.” He growls. Sam stands up and looks away from you. He’s so mad that he can’t make eye contact. He rubs a hand over his face, trying restrain himself. “I’m not leaving and you’re not going anywhere, but I’m out. No more hunting. We’ll just stay here long enough to get something else set up, somewhere safe we can start over. New names, new lives.”

“You really think you can do that? What about your brother? You just got him back.”

“Dean will make it work. We always do. I made a commitment to you in that field, do you remember that? You’re acting like it doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything to me Sam. I just…I hate this all so much. I just wanna go back. While we were there, all I could think about was getting out of Shadow Hill. It felt like a prison. And now… now I just want to go back where it’s you and me and nothing else.” Your voice cracks and the tears follow, running thick and wet down your cheeks. You feel his weight on the bed when he sits, then his arms as you cry into this chest.

“Do you still love me? Now that you know everything,” He asks.

His questions takes you off guard. If anything, you should be the one asking. “Of course,” you mumble into his shirt.

“Good,” he clutches you tight. “Then we will find a way.”

**Three Years Later - Just outside Lunenburg, Nova Scotia**

If it were up to you, you’d never leave this place.

The ocean shore lies jagged, the rocky outcrops a torn piece of paper where they meet the rushing waves. The shore is everything at once, every sense bombarded in a way that brings your mind to elevated thought. Eyes open to every shade of blue before you, every shade from white to browns and greys for your pleasure. Eyes closed there is the cool breeze, stealing warmth, giving you the taste and smell of the brine. The ocean’s faraway music takes command of your ears with crashing waves and the cries of the gulls. To the right of this little cottage home the cliff face rises sharply, graphite in the autumn sun. Between rock and wave, you sit intoxicated on the breath of mother earth, of nature and all the wonders she holds.

The front door creaks open and Sam slips out, shutting it with a carefulness usually reserved for fine china. He smiles at you, a heavy blanket swung over his shoulder and two steaming mugs of tea precariously grasped in one hand. “I defeated the beast.”

“He went down?” You scooch over, making room on the porch swing.

“It only took two baths, three books and a half hour of me making up lyrics to that Aladdin songs he loves, but I did it.”

“Two baths?” You laugh.

“Well, I thought we were home free and then there was puke everywhere.”

“Sorry,” you wince. He wraps the blanket around himself before sitting and opening it for you to join him. Lying back you rest against his chest with a warm cup between both hands. “Thanks for taking over. I don’t have it in me today.”

“It’s fine, I know you’re not yet feeling a hundred percent.” He kisses the back of your head, a strong arm snaking around your belly.

“I just hope by some miracle we haven’t given it to you.” You came down with it first. It’s been a nasty flu season and you’ve spent the better part of three days sweating on the cold tile of the bathroom floor. Just as you started to feel human again, Will crawled into your bed with rosy cheeks complaining about his stomach. Things devolved from there.

“It’s inevitable.” He shrugs, “It’s freezing out here, are you sure we shouldn’t go inside?”

“I like the fresh air. Besides, it’s warmer when you’re here.” You can see the ocean from the house, it’s waves rolling white-caped in the distance. You lean your head back on his shoulder and soak in this still, perfect moment.

“This week is gonna be crazy, I’m having to work late every night since we’re getting ready for the holiday.” Sam’s a manger at the grocery store, it’s boring and monotonous but it pays enough to keep your son in cheerios and dinosaur pajamas. Sam’s been pretty vocal about hating the work, but it doesn’t matter. You won’t be here that much longer. “We’ll need the money before the move.”

“I love it here, I don’t want to leave.” You close your eyes and listen to the gulls squawking to one another in the distance. Sam shifts behind you and then it’s two arms enveloping you as his mouth breathes warm at your temple.

“I know, but we’ve already been here too long. We gotta keep movin’.” Sam’s past may very well catch up with you one day, but until then the two of you do everything you can to play it safe. It’s all about flying below the radar and staying on your toes, blending in before moving on.  “You come up with any ideas yet?”

“I was thinking Washington state or maybe Oregon. Somewhere on the coast, I want to stay near the water.”

“Sounds perfect,” he kisses your temple but you feel him tense up. “I’ll start looking tomorrow.”

“What is it?” You turn your head. “I can practically feel you overthinking.”

“Is being with me worth all this?” He’s not really asking, he knows what your answer will be, but sometimes he needs to hear you say it. “You might never see your family again. We’ll never have a real home.”

You choose the most perfect memory of your father and cling to it. Doesn’t really matter if it’s only manufactured because for you; it was all too real. You choose it because in that moment, he was the person he should and would have always been; had it not been for the stress of life and losing you. In that snapshot his unwarped personality was something so golden and sacred you want to keep it forever. Like an old movie reel you can play it at will; it’s 1987, on the back lawn of your childhood home. He’s laughing, relaxed after mowing the lawn and asks you if you want an airplane ride and of course you do. What four year old doesn’t? In the moment, he has your right wrist and ankle. He spins like a shot-putter, but he never lets go. The garden turns into a green blur; you’re flying. Flying until he can spin no more. The memory has no smells or weather, but the garden is in fine detail: the crab apple tree, the rhododendron bush, the weeds in the flower beds. But the finest detail is his face, creased with love and your joy, not only for the ride but for being with him.

Sam is that father to your son now, and you’ll give up whatever you have to give Will these small, precious moments that are sometimes over before they begin.

“My home is with you.” You cover emotion with jest, “are you trying to get rid of us?”

“No,” Sam chuckles as you pick up his hand, running your thumb over a bluish vein. “Never.”

“It’s always going to me you and me, Sam.” You confirm. “You and me ‘till the wheels fall off.”


End file.
